Greatest voyage of the Hillevi
by Republic of Yolossia
Summary: A family plagued by misfortune, a crew under an unbreakable curse, an impossible task and a cast of rogues united by vengeance. Tino is missing, presumed dead, and Berwald has been captured by pirates. It's up to his sons to save him, but they're outnumbered and ill-equipped. sufin/hanatama family and others, steamtalia/piratalia
1. The peaceful morning

_I know I have started a lot of stories recently, and I know my total of unfinished stories is at a whopping great 10, but I needed to start this, and I've been up for 28 hours and not regretting writing the first chapter one bit. I can't remember my fucking name._

_Now this is set in Sweden, kinda. The time period is the early/mid 19__th__ century, but with a lot of alterations and accelerated technological development, as it is also a steampunk au. It has nothing to do with history and there are no references to historical events in this._

_Now, this is a Hanatamago family-centric fic with pairings including Sufin, ladkug, trnsea, aushun, dennor, luxmold and maybe a few others. This au/plot is still a major work in progress. It feels nice writing the Hanatamago family again._

_The au itself is made by myself and tumblr user peteradnan, and also features some of our ocs. No don't turn away! We've both worked very hard on our ocs, and like to think they're quite developed. I beg you to give them a chance. Besides, there's only seven, and they're all cute little micronations._

_This chapter is, and the next few will be, told from the point of view of peteradnan's Bjornsocialist republic oc, Björn. It also mentions my Valtio oc, Eemeli, and PA's Elleore oc, Ulrike. Hope you like them!_

_So, the warnings: this fic contains pirates, gore, blood, probably death, profanity, drinking that is probably underage where you are, horrible pirate punishments, sea monsters, and Sweden's children being complete and utter tools._

_You have been warned._

…

Björn poked at the fire, boredly watching the dull flames flicker in the tiny, raised fireplace in their cottage. He sat huddled on a rickety stool, trying to coax some warmth out of the useless embers, but was so far failing. The winter was too cold, icy winds seeping through every crack and crevice in the walls to wrap around his arms and feet, chilling him constantly. Their cottage used to be built for warmth, back when there were eight of them living together, huddled in the one room, him and his brothers running around too much to feel the cold properly. Then everyone had left and his father, Papa Berwald, had let the place fall into decay. The house felt like it was falling apart, with each new crack in the walls and floorboards. Building used to be his father's life, along with fishing and his family, but after his husband's disappearance, Berwald had not had the energy to fix his crumbling home.

Their cottage had one room, small and cluttered, full of blankets, fishing nets, rods, hooks, barrels of pickled herring, cupboards of food, chairs, tables, a large bed, tools, diving equipment and boat parts. The walls used to be white, but smoke and six rowdy boys had turned it a dull grey colour, stained brown in places, not that anyone really noticed or cared. There were a few small windows dotted about, with thick, grimy glass to keep out the cold, so the place was usually pretty dim, scarce light thrown into sharp contrast by the fire that was almost always alight.

It used to be a warm, cosy place, and Björn remembered it fondly, back when he was a mere toddler and surrounded by a loving family. Five brothers he had; all but one of them were older than he, and a huge range of vibrant personalities. An odd bunch, but they were his family and he loved each one. Both of their parents were alive back then, singing and reading stories to their children when they could. Isi Tino would prepare and preserve the fish Papa Berwald caught, then travel to the market on the other side of the bay to sell it. Papa Berwald spent his days in the tiny fishing trawler, out at sea from dawn til dusk. They loved their sons, a motley crew of orphans and abandoned infants they'd found throughout the country on their travels, before settling down on the outskirts of a tiny village with their six children.

Then one day, Tino left for market, and never returned. A storm had blown his boat out of the bay and he went missing. Only the boat was ever recovered, when it washed ashore on the beach a few miles south, empty and covered in bloodstains. The search party who found it declared Tino dead, though the body was never located.

Berwald had refused to give up hope. It would take a body to prove to him that his husband was dead, and he spent yet more weeks searching for his love, even after the rest of the village had given up hope and gone back to their lives. But even the gruelling efforts of the man were in vain, and the case remained unsolved to the very day.

His brothers had left shortly after that, one by one slowly moving out and travelling to the capital city to make careers for themselves. Berwald had, begrudgingly, allowed the four older children to travel there, stating that they were old enough to make their own way in life. He'd seen each one to the train station, kissing their foreheads and making them promise to write. Not one letter had been sent, and the oldest, Peter, had left over two years ago. But it was the youngest Oxenstjärna-Väinämöinen leaving that was the straw that broke the camel's back, or in this case, the knife that tore Berwald's heart to pieces. Eemeli, despite being the youngest and two years Björn's junior, had been desperate to follow his brothers to the water city that was their capital. He had big plans, he claimed, and needed a big city of opportunity to put them into action, but Berwald refused to allow it, saying he was too young to fend for himself. Eemeli had thrown one of his usual childish temper tantrums, but Berwald was firm, possibly even more convinced by the juvenile display, regardless of the empty threats the boy screamed at him. The case was closed, as far as Berwald could see. But Eemeli had other ideas.

In the dark of night, he'd crept out, packing his bags and leaving a scrawled note on the table stating that he was leaving regardless of his father's wishes. When Berwald found the note, he'd not said a word for the rest of the day, only kicking the table over in a rage and leaving for a day's fishing, not taking Björn with him for the first time in years. He'd been irritable all week, Eemeli's actions cutting so deep into him that Björn feared he'd never recover, especially when he woke up one night to find his father crying silently in front of the fire, but the man would carry on like little had changed. He'd emotionally distanced himself from his last remaining son though, as if he were afraid of Björn leaving and hurting him too.

The boy would never do that though. After Eemeli had left, he'd sworn to help his father, and never leave the man's side. He was all Papa Berwald had left, after all.

Björn took another bite of his toasted sardine sandwich, hoping it would warm his insides at least. He wiggled his tiny toes, which were freezing, despite being wrapped in three pairs of socks, and huge, thigh-high rubber boots. The grey footwear allowed him to safely cross mud and shallow water without getting his clothes and feet wet, and were handed down to him after two of his brothers had outgrown them. Most of his clothes were second hand, from Peter's long, grey mackintosh and dark green, baggy trousers, to the bright yellow hat, thick belt and oversized blue gloves passed down from Papa Berwald. None of his clothes fitted him properly, but Björn didn't mind at all.

There were two items that he owned from new though: his scarf and his pin. The scarf he'd knitted all by himself, along with scarves for the rest of his brothers, and was a greyish blue. The thing was perfect for helping him keep warm during the long days at sea. His pin was also something he'd made himself, shaping it out of old wires to form a sickle. It was fastened to is scarf, like it always was. His boots squeaked as he shifted his legs slightly, careful not to knock off the plate balanced on his knees.

Just as he swallowed his last mouthful of sandwich, Papa Berwald strode in through the door, nodding at his son to follow him outside. He was a tall man, with thick glasses and cropped blond hair. His large blue trench coat hid a thick, knitted jumper, and he wore boots almost identical to his son's.

Björn jumped up, placing the plate on a table, collecting his goggles and fishing rod from the shelf where he always kept them and scampering out the door after Papa Berwald.

Their cottage was on a slope, overgrown grass stretching before them and thick woods towering over the building behind it. The grass slanted downwards until it reached the coast, broken only by a few log steps Papa Berwald had put in place to stop his sons from losing their footing when they ran to the beach. The bay itself was shaped like a crescent moon, sides almost touching, allowing mere meters for the tiny boats to pass, and being too small for ships, and the land getting higher and steeper the further out to sea it stretched. The water itself was rough and choppy, greyish-brown in colour, and the roars it made as it crashed against the surrounding cliffs could be heard from the cottage. The wind whipped at Björn's face as he began to walk, goggles around his neck, fishing rod in one hand whilst the other desperately tried to hold his hat in place as the sides flapped wildly, occasionally smacking him in the nose.

Berwald glanced over his shoulder, giving a small smile as his son trotted along behind him, stumbling in his boots as he walked in his father's shadow, feeling secure and safe in the large man's presence. The big bear and the little bear- as Tino had often called them, referencing their names- off to catch some fish for themselves.

At the foot of the slope, tied to a creaking, wooden pier was their fishing trawler: _Hillevi_. The small, but trusty, royal blue boat was full of nets and barrels, her name painted in gold along the hull, the wheel- a third of the way down the deck- covered by three walls of the same colour, clear windows on all sides and a white roof. Behind that, a large mechanical arm emerged, hand resting on the roof, as if _Hillevi_ herself was sleeping in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was only just starting to rise and the grass was dripping with dew.

Papa Berwald strode up the gangplank, holding out an arm for Björn, who took it and scrambled aboard. Björn stowed the gangplank in the boat, and Berwald started the engine. Black smoke began billowing out of the funnel at the back as the engines began to whirr and roar. The mechanical arm twitched into life, becoming animated as Berwald guided it with a joystick, and the huge metal contraption gently patted Björn's head as the trawler began to cross the bay, the bow cutting through the choppy waves with ease. Björn turned around, grinning from his seat at the bow at his papa through the window. The man gave a small smile back, eyes twinkling.

The deck rose and fell with the waves around it, growing more noticeable as the trawler drew into open waters. Björn didn't feel seasick though; he never did. As Papa Berwald brought _Hillevi_ to a standstill, Björn felt a few spots of rain attack his face, but it didn't evolve into a downpour. He took his rod, pulled his goggles up to his face and picked his bait- a juicy, wriggly maggot- which he speared with the hook. Papa Berwald generally let him do his own thing on the boat, and Björn's 'own thing' involved him trying to catch his own fish whilst his father used the mechanical arm to lower nets into the water.

They would stay this way for the whole day.

…

Björn sat to the starboard side of _Hillevi_, legs dangling over the edge and listening to his father sing. He loved Papa Berwald's voice: deep and slow as he sang folk songs and sea shanties, telling Björn of seamen and monsters, battles and quests and love. He sang of sailors sailing home to their sweethearts, brave young lads looking for fortune on the open waters, and sirens who dragged unsuspecting pirates to their doom. He adored the stories, all the more because they were told by his father.

Björn still kept a hold on his fishing rod, and had so far caught a few minnows, which he quickly released after studying them. He was after something larger and more edible. As Berwald sang about an ancient, snake-like monster with crushing jaws and tentacles that could tear the biggest ships apart with just a few blows, Björn focused on the water, murky brown and slapping against the fender: a collection of old tyres attached to the sides of the ship to protect it from collisions.

So absorbed was he by the waters that he didn't notice his father stop singing, or move from the bridge of the trawler to the starboard side. It was only when Berwald clasped a hand over his mouth, that Björn realised something was wrong.

He struggled, not realising who it was, and dropped his fishing rod, the red pole plopping into the sea and floating to the surface, bobbing away from them, like a rat abandoning a sinking ship. Berwald let his grip relax and Björn wheeled round angrily.

"Look what you've done, papa!" he cried, "I paid for tha-"

Berwald silenced him with a glare, pointing over the portside bulwarks, the walls of the ship rising above the deck. Björn squinted, and found there was another ship coming towards them, still far away enough to look like a dark smudge against the grey sea.

"P'rates," Berwald hissed, gripping his son's shoulders with shaking hands.

"It can't be!"

"'Tis," Berwald handed him a tiny, pocket telescope, and Björn peered through it. Now he could see the ship clearer, a huge, hulking battleship- a wooden ship of the line- painted black with three masts, sails like dirty cream flags. The smoke billowing from behind the mainmast indicated it relied on coal as well as the wind. The figurehead was a bloodied warrior, draped in furs and armour, carrying an axe with long blond hair carved so that it melded with the wood, and the flag was black and white. There was no doubt that the ship belonged to pirates, and it was heading right for them.

"But I thought they were extinct!" he cried, turning to his father in horror. Papa Berwald sighed.

"'Pparently not…"

"Well what do we do?" Björn handed the telescope back to Berwald, who averted his gaze.

"The speed they're going… we can't outrun it. They'd blast us to pieces before we got back to the bay."

Björn gulped, feeling- for the first time in his nautical, eleven year old, life- like he was going to be sick. But he stayed strong, determined to show no fear in front of Papa Berwald.

"Then what option does that leave?"

Berwald didn't reply at first, he just knelt down, stroking his son's hair and removing the boy's goggles, letting them dangle around his neck.

"M'gonna surrender, and you're gonna hide."

"But…" Björn shook his head, "where's the honour in me hiding?"

"I don't g've a flying fuck 'bout honour!" Berwald shouted, "I don't want them getting their hands on ya!"

"But what about you?" Björn's resolve crumbled as tears pricked in his eyes; he couldn't leave his father to fend for himself against _pirates_, not when they'd already lost so much. Berwald was all he had left, and though he was only a child, he needed to protect the man.

"I'll be fine," Berwald gave a tiny, fake smile before standing up and leading Björn towards the hold, a small hatch door in the deck, just in front of the mechanical arm, which was curled up, deathly still, "now g't in there and hide. And don't c'me out until I say, or I'm long gone."

Björn nodded, face blotchy with tears as he sniffed, climbing into the hold with the fish they'd already caught. The room was small and cramped, the ceiling so low that Björn had to duck, and filled with barrels. Some barrels contained gutted, salted fish in brine whilst others contained entrails and yet more were empty. Björn hurriedly scrambled into the nearest empty barrel, just as the enormous ship collided with _Hillevi_. The barrels went tumbling and crashing, and Björn was thrown onto his side. Above him, wood splintered, unfamiliar voices shouted, and the roof of the hull thundered as the pirates swung onto the deck. Orders were called to seize the fisherman, and search the boat. At least they hadn't used the cannons.

Björn wanted to cry again. What were they doing to Papa Berwald? He heard the man cry out in pain, and wanted to cry out too, to call to his father and let him know he wasn't alone. But then the pirates would just find him, and who knows what they'd do to a child like him. If_ Hillevi_ was being searched, then they'd find him eventually, right? He kept as quiet as he could, despite the terror bubbling inside of him, and the brine in his eyes that stung so he could barely see in the gloom. He heard more cries of pain, and to his relief, not all of them came from Papa Berwald. But soon enough, all sounds of a fight died down, quickly replaced by victorious jeers, as Papa Berwald was, apparently, subdued.

"Ulrike, search down below!" called a deep, hoarse, accented voice. A sudden light nearly blinded him as the hatch was thrown open and a girl peered in, dangling an oil lamp in the hull and scanning the room for signs of life. He held his breath, laying as still as he possibly could and seeing all this through a tiny hole in the barrel, large enough for one eye. The girl, who had to be in her late teens, glanced over his barrel, paying it no more attention than the other ones, before disappearing back on deck.

"All clear Daddy- err, I mean Captain!"

Ulrike hadn't bothered to close the hatch, and Björn could vaguely see what was happening on deck. Two lean, blond pirates were holding his father's arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees whilst a third, from his dress and stance clearly the captain, stood over him, arms crossed and face twisted into a smirk. The girl, Ulrike, had wandered further along the deck, standing next to two other figures that Björn couldn't quite make out.

"Well, what have we here?" the captain purred, curling a booted foot under Berwald's chin to inspect his face closer, "just one? Aw, that's a shame. Still, he's a big 'un, which is something. Or are you hiding some secret things in the floating tin can of yours?"

"This floatin' tin can has served me well for the past decade-"

The boot smacked Berwald across the face, and Björn fought the urge to scream, and scramble out of the barrel and fight. Berwald had told him to stay safe and hidden, and that was what he was going to do. Besides, the captain was almost as tall as his father, and Björn was absolutely terrified of him. He couldn't win against them all. He had no weapon, for starters.

"Answer the fucking question!"

"There's n'thing for you here," Berwald sighed, "'cept me."

"It's true, Capt," the girl spoke up, "just nothing but fish and nets. Nothing we can really sell, at least."

"They can still be useful," the captain told her, "put all the equipment on our ship, and fetch a few barrels of fish. They'll make an excellent supper!"

"Right-ho!" Ulrike saluted and set to work, along with the other figures, who turned out to be a boy around his brothers' ages and a short, masked man. The boy jumped down into the hold looking around at the barrels. Björn once more felt his heart stop. What if the boy picked his barrel? Then he'd be doomed for sure. But the boy seemed only interested in the barrels still standing upright, as they were probably the ones too full of fish to have been knocked over.

"Why can't we ever hit a ship full of booze," he grumbled, sniffing the barrel he was holding and wrinkling his nose in disgust as the masked man, still crouched on deck above him, nodded in agreement. Björn couldn't help but notice several similarities between the teen and the girl, like their bright blond hair, accents, and matching red coats, embroidered around the sleeves by gold thread, and knitted scarves wrapped around their necks. Whilst the boy's was light orange, Ulrike's was black. The boy also had a gold scarf wrapped around his head like a bandanna. Mischievous blue eyes darted about the room as the boy hauled three barrels up to his companion before climbing back on deck.

Meanwhile, Berwald was glaring at the captain, who continued to smile cheerfully down at him.

"Why're you doing this?" he almost pleaded.

"Because we can?" the man replied, "and we need humans like you in particular, lonely ones with nothing in the world. People that don't have anyone to care if they died tomorrow..."

That made Björn furious. He cared if Papa Berwald died, without Papa Berwald, he was truly alone in the world.

Berwald didn't respond though. He couldn't risk saying or doing anything that might give the rogues any reason to suspect that there was another soul on the trawler. He just glared up at the captain, breathing heavily and spitting blood on the wooden floor at the man's feet.

"Most sea rovers like us would give orders to burn this piece of shit driftwood," the captain commented, hoping to get a reaction out of Berwald, any indication of panic, but received none. "Of course," he continued, "I need to send a message to the people of the North Eastern Seas, one that shows we are not a crew to be messed with." He nodded to the two holding Berwald, and they pulled him to his feet, a hefty task, considering that Papa Berwald was just over half a metre taller than them. When he was standing, the captain unsheathed his cutlass, and sawed through the left sleeves of Berwald's coat and jumper, revealing a pale, muscular arm. The captain's cutlass flashed again, and Berwald screamed in pain, a noise that Björn had never heard in his life, and it nearly turned his bones to jelly.

Blood spattered across the deck and a red gash was now running the length of Berwald's arm, from his wrist to his elbow. The captain grabbed his wrist, gloved fingers digging painfully into the man's flesh. He allowed the blood to drip to the floor, until he was satisfied enough had been spilled. Then he thrust a woozy, weakened Berwald back to the other two.

"Put him in the brig with the others," he ordered, "our work here is done."

…

Björn just lay there for hours, with nothing but the sounds of waves for company, until he was sure it was completely safe to leave. He could only watch in cold, numb dread as the marauders carried his father onto their ship and sailed away. He'd just laid there, too terrified to even cry.

Eventually, when the sun was beginning to set, far in the east, he crawled out of his barrel and onto deck. There was no one in sight. It was only then that he allowed himself to bawl, curling into the foetal position and wailing, tears streaming down his tiny face. In his mind, he became a toddler again, screaming for his parents, but this time, they weren't there to pick him up and comfort him. He felt utterly helpless. There was no one to protect him now, and his father was in grave danger.

He glanced up, looking at the blood spatters covering the bridge, under the wheel where Papa Berwald used to stand proudly. They were familiar to him, resembling the blood stains that were said to be all that was left of Isi Tino. Had the same pirates done it? Of course. Who else left a ship in this state?

Björn gulped, before steeling himself, his expression of terror turning to one of fury. He stood up shakily, moving over to the bridge, and taking the wheel with trembling hands. His rubber boots were stood right in the middle of the blood, Björn determined to defy the pirates and their macabre message. He'd do it! He'd save Papa Berwald, and avenge Isi Tino!

Instead of blindly sailing out to sea after them, he turned towards the bay.

First, he'd need to find and recruit his estranged brothers.

…

**Hope it's okay so far. Any unnamed characters will be revealed soon, as will the other Oxenstjärna-Väinämöinen siblings.**

**I do plan to write up every au, both ones I made alone and with other people. It'll be slow going, but I'll get there. The fact that the Easter Holidays are a week away helps.**

**I started this mostly because it's a new au and fresh in my mind, and I keep finding songs that inspire it, mostly Alestorm, who I discovered Thursday and have not been able to stop listening to. IDK, their music makes me want to write pirates and seafarers and fights with sea creatures and brutal nautical life.**

**So please tell me what you think so far!**

**I'm sorry for all the maritime jargon, and I tried to explain the more obscure words within the story, but if there's anything you're stuck on, please let me know.**


	2. The family of misfourtune

_Yrjan- Jamtland_

_Hemming- Wikingland_

_Lars- Ladonia_

…

_Second chapter yay! _

_Lots of warning for this. Wouldn't recommend reading if you're disturbed by drugs, prostitution, physical abuse, gore and drowning._

_Apart from that, enjoy!_

…

The _Hillevi_ that bobbed listlessly next to the pier was a sorry sight. She had been picked clean of her equipment, and rammed in the portside by a much larger ship. Her paintwork was scratched and portside bulwarks in tatters, splinters of wood scattered across the deck. Then there was the blood, not only from where Berwald's had been spilled, but also Björn's faint, red footprints leading from the puddle to the gangplank. There were also a few spots of blood in other parts of the deck, and loose teeth, from where Papa Berwald had put up a fight, and that made Björn strangely proud of his father.

This ship was in no fit state to sail into open water chasing a gang of dangerous criminals, but Björn didn't have to worry about _that _for the moment, first, he needed to travel to the city and find his brothers. They were, mostly, older and smarter, and between them, they could probably form a plan to get Berwald back. They'd have to hurry though. Björn had little knowledge on the ways of pirates, and wasn't too sure what they even did with prisoners. Papa Berwald could already be dead, for all he knew. Every hour reduced his chances of survival, and Björn was determined to leave immediately.

Still, if he couldn't rescue his Papa, he'd make damn well sure he could avenge him.

The sun had just dipped below the cliffs, and he could barely see anything through the gloom as he stood outside his cottage door. He watched the shadowy form of the _Hillevi_ for a few moments more, trying to get used to the weight of the huge, canvas duffel bag on his shoulder and back. The olive green lump contained a few days' worth of food, all the money he could find in the cottage, a few blankets, a battered map of the water capital, Papa Berwald's travel papers, and a spare change of undergarments, plus a few other items he found lying around the room. It pressed down on him, like the shame he bore from not doing more to help his father. If Papa Berwald was here, he'd tell Björn it was just survivor's guilt talking, and he needn't worry. Except Papa Berwald was long gone to who-knows-where and Björn was all alone.

Sighing, he adjusted the duffel bag and began to walk towards the village.

…

The next morning, he stood on the platform of a busy train station, untouched and undisturbed by most of the crowd, due to the stench of fish lingering about him and his ragged appearance. Not that he minded; being a village boy, he was unused to the hum of the small town he found himself in. And it would only be more crowded when he reached the vast expanse of the city. He feared he'd be swept away by a tide of people the moment he set foot in the capital.

After the long trek into the village, he'd boarded a horse-drawn coach to a town with a train station, pulled by the largest beasts he'd ever seen in his life. He was terrified that they'd snap at him as he climbed the ladder into the passenger compartment, thus lingered for a few moments, but the busy coachman had gotten bored of his tentativeness and shoved him on board, picking him up by the scruff of his neck and throwing him through the door. They passed forests of pine and spruce, mixed with broadleaf trees, the floor littered with wildflowers, shrubs and grasses, shadows blurring and elongating as the moon rose in the sky. After travelling all night, only able to get a few, restless hours sleep due to the bumpiness of the road- which caused him to keep smacking into the window- and crowd of people packed into one space, he'd been dropped off at the centre of town, wandering around blearily until he eventually found the train station. The town itself was pleasant, with cobbled streets and brightly coloured houses and market stalls. It was a fortified garrison town though, with the constant presence of soldiers in case of the outbreak of war. The odd soldier wandered around the town, mixing with the citizens, whilst Björn himself was largely ignored, except for a few children making fun of him for his strange clothes and smell. When they noticed the bloodstains on his boots, however, they soon backed down.

Now here he was, waiting for one of the trains to take him to a town just outside the city, then he'd travel by boat into the heart of the water capital. He roughly remembered his brothers explaining to route to him shortly before they'd left themselves. The train ride itself would take several days, and the whole journey would be one long, exhausting process. The capital was huge, and Björn had no idea how long it would take to find all his brothers, if he could find them at all.

The station had high copper walls that sloped into a glass ceiling, and the outside was made of stone. The trains themselves were a mixture of metals, round and smooth like giant metallic slugs. Long distance locomotives had only one, large carriage, and travelled on elevated rails above the forests and cities. On the platform, people rushed about with bags, suitcases and children, some going to or fro on holiday whilst others were migrant workers looking for a job in the capital. Rich families in expensive suits and dresses clustered together; almost as if they were afraid one of the poor people would touch or breathe on them.

Björn found the platform he needed: platform three, with one long-distance train to the capital. He'd been convinced to pay extra for one heading straight to his destination, as opposed to one stopping off at other cities, and in the interest of time, he felt it was the better option.

He showed ticket to the porter, who directed him towards the third class compartment, tucked away at the back of the carriage. Björn sat himself down on a hard, wooden bench in between a sleeping drunkard and the window, duffle bag balanced on his knees and almost crushing them. But there was no room for it on the floor in front of him, due to a huge, smelly greyhound that lay there. As he waited for the train to fill, he took in the smells of smoke, alcohol and metal, and thought of his brothers. Where would they be? How had the past one to two years changed them, for better or worse?

Peter could be anywhere. The oldest boy had always wanted to tour the world, and he could have travelled to any country since anyone had last seen him. The thought that not all of his brothers still lived in the capital scared Björn, but he tried not to think of it. Peter was loud and brash, and there was always the chance that one of his elaborate schemes to become great had backfired on him, and he was currently spending time in jail. Or, at sixteen, he had finally settled down and gotten himself a decent job. It could happen!

There was always the chance that he'd gone back to the Western Isles, across the sea, which was where he was said to have come from.

He still had the accent, despite being taken in by Papa Berwald when he was a tiny baby, after being given to him by a sailor, a stern woman who'd had the child out of wedlock and planned to remain in the country until she'd given birth to him and given him up for adoption before retuning to the Western Isles, her family back home being none the wiser of her mistake. Instead though, she found a lonely traveller from the far north, who wanted a child of his own more than anything else in the world. It was a perfect match, and Papa Berwald was finally a parent to his first son.

Björn had a feeling Yrjan would be the easiest to find. The boy loved performing and public speaking, and was probably not stupid enough to not do anything reckless. Unless he'd joined a political party, or revolutionary group; he had always been very politically-minded and at times had bordered on being an anarchist. Björn sighed; Yrjan was probably in jail too.

The second brother's circumstances of birth were far more tragic than Peter's. He had no clue who his father was, and it could've been any of the men that had paid for his poverty-stricken mother, who had travelled from the northwest lands for a better life. What she found instead was her demise.

When Berwald had stumbled upon her in an alley, she'd been dying, baby in her arms, and white powder over her face and dress. Drugs and prostitution had ruined her, and would soon do the same to her child, small and bony and dangerously underdeveloped. She told Berwald her life story, slurred and mumbled and incomplete, whilst he held her as passed into the next world. He and the two boys were the only ones who attended her funeral, then Berwald turned his attentions to the screaming, jittery baby he'd been left with, dealing with the lingering effects of his mother's drug use during her pregnancy. Yrjan was always ill. Always ill and always crying. He'd start over the littlest things, and would not stop his high-pitched wailing for hours at a time. He hardly fed or slept, and if he didn't have a fever, then he'd have breathing difficulties, or skin sores. Yrjan eventually grew out of these problems, but remained delicate, still a bit on the skinny side, and struggled with many aspects of his life more so than his brothers.

Then there was Hemming. Like the other two brothers, he was sixteen. Out of them all, he was the most reasonable, never getting into serious trouble, spending most of his days tinkering about with the _Hillevi_'s engine, or daydreaming about things he never mentioned to anyone. He collected spare parts from boats and automobiles, working part-time at the mechanic's down in the village. As there weren't many automobiles about, especially in the tiny village, the mechanics mostly worked with boat engines. Hemming had always wanted to live in a large city, full of cars and trains and smoke. He loved how the _Hillevi _billowed out smoke, constantly smelling the stuff, and he loved the twang-y smell of metal, claiming each metal had a distinct scent.

Hemming had been a capital boy originally, fifth son of a wealthy pair of scientists. They'd planned to travel the world one day, with their family, and when Hemming was a toddler, they'd boarded a ship to start that dream, but when the ship was barely out on open waters, it hit a rock and capsized. The whole family perished, except for little Hemming, who floated in his tiny, wooden cradle in the sea until he was picked up by a lifeboat. Berwald found him in an orphanage and, upon hearing his story, immediately adopted him, claiming he was a good luck child. And, judging by the many near-death accidents he'd survived whilst working with engines and vehicles, everyone believed he was. Björn hoped his lucky streak continued, because the city he'd returned to was huge and full of dangers. The absent-minded boy could easily be run over when he wasn't paying attention, or stabbed and mugged in an alley. He daydreamed too much to live in a place where one constantly needed to be aware of their surroundings. Björn didn't like to think of the likelihood that at least one brother had departed from this world in the last two years.

The train shuddered, the doors closing as it began to move. Björn watched as the carriage rose slowly, puffing through a tunnel in the wall near the ceiling. Suddenly, the whole town lay below him, rivers and lakes glistening in the morning sunlight. The houses were like tiny, multicoloured jewels surrounded by thick, fortified walls. Beyond that, lay forests and marshes.

As Björn admired the view, he thought some more of his strange, unfortunate, family.

Lars was fourteen, and just as technologically-minded as Hemming. He loved playing with little gadgets and inventing things. Hardly anything that he invented was useful, but he tried. He was a bad-tempered boy though, and always fighting with his brothers and parents. He was power-hungry too, just like Peter and Eemeli. Lars had wanted something more than a simple fisherman's life, and was determined to become great, and have his own land and servants.

Though he fought with the older boys almost constantly, he refused to ever hit Björn and Eemeli, and only hit the older boys when their arguments broke into fist fights and he'd be receiving punches in retaliation. Maybe he was worried he was turning into his father, his biological one, at least.

Lars was the only one related to Björn by blood. Their mother was a village girl, and a good friend of Berwald's; their father, according to Lars, was a bastard, and Papa Berwald was inclined to agree, not even chastising his son for his foul language. The bruises had long faded from the boy's body, except the one scar on his face that would be there for the rest of his life, as would the memories of his abuse. Their mother had sustained worse injuries over the years, and both had become expert in hiding them, but when she found she was expecting her second child, and her relationship with her husband had deteriorated further, she realised she needed to leave. So she hid at her best friend's house, with Lars suddenly being around other children for the first time in his life. He didn't know how to act around Berwald's three happy, friendly sons, and couldn't help but be terrified of them at first, and their huge, scary father. He lashed out, and shouted and screamed whenever they got too close, but eventually, tentatively, became used to the family who showed him only kindness. He and his mother settled down in their new cottage by the sea, finally safe and peaceful, and the pregnancy could finally continue without problem. Lars anticipated his new sibling's arrival eagerly.

Of course, it could never last. Happy things never seemed to last for the family. Lars' father eventually tracked his wife down, just as she was days from giving birth. He'd claimed he'd wanted to talk, and reconcile, so she let him in, much to Berwald's horror. He didn't do anything other than state his disapproval, warn his friend and shoo the four boys out a side door, telling them to fish and play together for a few hours, just in case something bad happened.

And it did.

Berwald had not ever told Lars the full story, and was sketchy with details, but as their mother had suffered fatal physical injuries and internal bleeding, and Papa Berwald had subsequently killed their father by using a fish hook to rip his throat out, panicking and burying him in the garden, it was pretty clear what had happened. What their father had done to their mother was so severe that Björn himself was born with a broken arm, barely managing to survive at all, and the poor girl passed away a few days later.

Björn wondered if what his 'father' had done was the reason he was so short and scrawny. He _knew _it was the reason for Lars' behaviour. He wondered if it was normal to hate a man he'd never seen and would, thankfully, never meet.

Eemeli would probably be the hardest to find, though Björn suspected he'd also be dead or in jail. The boy was far too reckless for his own good. He plotted and schemed to himself, only ever telling Björn, whom he was closest to, about his plans to take over the world one day. The boy had shrugged them off as childish fancy, but now as he was being hurtled through the sky on flimsy rails past forest and field, he couldn't help but wonder if he was about to travel to a dark, totalitarian capital renamed 'Eemeliborg'. He shuddered at the thought.

Like everything else about the boy, Eemeli's very existence was shrouded in mystery, more so than the other brothers. He came crashing into their life along with Tino eight years ago, and no one was quite sure why. Berwald knew, of course, but what had happened to the duo that would eventually become his husband and youngest son was apparently so evil that he refused to tell another soul, possibly at Tino's request. All Björn knew was that the pair of them had collapsed at their door, Tino beaten and bloody, and half-dead, carrying his screaming infant son in his arms. He banged on the door, and when Berwald answered, Tino only had time to beg him to hide them before collapsing at his feet. The man, barely more than a boy at the time, survived, and he and Eemeli soon became part of the family, and after a year or so, Tino and Berwald had married in secrecy.

The injuries Tino had sustained were odd though, like his skin had been ripped away in places. He never told the boys how he'd gotten them, but they'd permanently disfigured his body. The white scars covered his face, arms and torso, twisting his mouth and eyelids. He didn't care though, just happy that he and his son were alive and getting a second chance at life. He loved Berwald, and saw the five Oxenstjärna boys as his sons, but refused to speak of the circumstances of Eemeli's birth, and his apparent near-death experience to anyone but his husband. They knew Tino and Eemeli were from the east, and had travelled here by boat, but nothing else. Even Eemeli knew little of his own past.

The family was plagued by bad luck, as if the most ill-fortuned people in the northern lands had been pushed together by their own miserable fate, a fate which only went downhill, it would seem.

Isi Tino and Papa Berwald had just six happy years together, before Isi Tino's brutal murder, then the boys slowly left, and now this. Björn could still see it in his mind, Papa Berwald being held down as the captain kicked his face and humiliated him. He could almost hear the spattering of blood, splintering of wood and crashing of waves. The captain's deep, mocking voice resounded in his ears until it drove him half mad. He scratched at his ears, removing his hat and roughly running his hands through his soft blond hair.

The drunken man next to him began arguing with himself as he slept, and opposite them, a mother tried to calm her three screaming children. Björn sighed, resigning himself to a long and difficult trip.

…

The barge pulled up against the docks, and Björn waited for his turn to disembark, thinking about the past few days with a shudder. The cramped carriage soon got overheated and Björn, wrapped in a mackintosh, jumper and scarf, had fainted on several occasions. Not that the other passengers cared. In fact, they'd seen it as an opportunity to rifle through his bag and pinch most of his money.

He stepped onto the docks, and looked up at the city. Old buildings dominated the skyline, along with new, grand ones, and people milled about the dockyard, either passengers looking to catch a boat, or the sailors and fishermen who owned them.

Someone shoved past him and he stepped forward, tripping over a beggar and stumbling over. His duffle bag bashed into the back of his head, and behind him he heard a pained grunt.

"Oh gosh sir, I'm so sorr-" his words died on his tongue as he turned around, and found himself nose to nose with…

"Peter!"

…

**Hey the second chapter's done. Hopefully the next lot will be more action and less backstory.**

**Now, Yrjan/Jamtland is my oc for the micronation in northern Sweden, and Hemming/Wikingland is peteradnan's oc for the Stockholm micronation. As mentioned previously, Eemeli/Valtio is my oc for the Finnish micronation. **

**Now, I know I said there would be only seven ocs in this, but I've moved that up to ten. Oh well.**


	3. The wretched captives

_Anri Baeten- Belgium_

_Mathias Densen- Denmark_

_Jan Baeten- Netherlands_

_Luca Baeten- Luxembourg_

_Stelios Andreou- Cyprus_

_Tsvetan Borisov- Bulgaria_

_Emil Bondesson- Iceland_

…

_In which I actually write canon characters that aren't Sweden._

_The three child ocs mentioned in this are the Romanian and Bulgarian micronations. Dragomir is Wirtland, the internet micronation based in Bulgaria; Skender is Valia, an Aromanian micronation in Romania; and Eugen is the Federal Republic of South-Eastern Carpathians, who is related to both Romania and Moldova. I actually made a post on tumblr detailing these particular characters if anyone's interested, or still confused._

_Søren is the Danish micronation: Christiania, owned by peteradnan. And Ulrike, for those who have forgotten, is Elleore._

_Warning for blood and violence in this chapter._

…

For the past few days, Berwald had slipped in and out of a bleary, delirious consciousness, unaware of where he was and plagued by fitful dreams. The memories of when he was last fully awake tormented him and ripped at his sanity bit by bit, painfully fresh in his mind. The captain's sneering face rarely strayed from his vision, neither did the pain of being beaten and kicked and spat on. After he'd been dragged aboard, the crew had tormented and 'played' with him, seeing how many kicks to the stomach it would take for him to collapse. Fifteen, apparently. He felt proud of that.

Now, he was slowly slipping back into the world of the living. He didn't know how long, exactly, he'd been asleep, or where he had been left, probably to die. Everything was a dull mix of black and red, and the noises around him were fuzzy, but slowly melting into something intelligible. He heard babies' cries and murmurs and groans. The ship creaked and chains rattled. There was the rustling of clothing, and in the distance, someone vomited. The smell was awful.

Berwald slowly opened his eyes, and was met with dull, blurry wooden planks above his head, mouldy and crawling with bugs. His vision swam, slowly coming into focus, and he lifted his head up. He was lying in the corner of a crowded cell, ignored by the other prisoners, who sat huddled together, backs facing him. They talked in hushed voices, some mumbling a sorrowful song whilst others cried out in despair.

Berwald realised his hands were chained together by rusty handcuffs, and he rattled them half-heartedly. He slowly sat up, head searing in pain that almost sent him back to the floor. Berwald grunted, which attracted the attention of one of the men nearby him.

"Oh good," he commented; "you're up! I was starting to get worried! Thought you were dead and all!" He was brunet, with soft green eyes and a kind smile. His white shirt was in tatters, and there were faint bruises doted about his attractive face. Baggy brown trousers; stained, white stockings; brown pumps; and a red scarf tied around the waist completed his outfit.

"Wh're am…" Berwald groaned, to woozy and injured to form coherent sentences. His slumped against the wall, eyes half closed.

"Where are you?" the man offered, "the brig, of course! That's where ol' Captain Densen keeps all his prisoners!"

Berwald nodded, looking around. This cell was one of many in the brig, he noticed, glancing at the identical, but mostly empty, cells around him through the rusted iron bars that made up three of the walls. The remaining wall was old, splintery wood, and through the tiny porthole, Berwald could see the calm, grey sea. The porthole was also the only source of light.

His cellmates were a sorry group; men, women and, to his horror, children clustered together for warmth and comfort, wrapped in a variety of clothes and blankets, from elegant, detailed suits to engineer's aprons to ragged sailor's uniforms. It seemed the pirates spared no one, regardless of class or creed, in their kidnapping sprees.

A young, plump, blonde lady, who was sitting next to the man who'd greeted Berwald, turned to them and smiled. Her green dress was bulky and dripping with frills and lace, spread out on the floor like a muddy, soiled duvet.

"You poor thing," she cooed, stroking his face, despite the cuffs also restraining her hands. She threw a reassuring smile in his direction, and he gave one in return, glad he was surrounded by friendly faces; so far, at least.

"Oh, I'm Anri, and this is Antonio," Anri told him, indicating to her companion.

"Berwald. Nice t'meet ya," he nodded at them.

"Nice to meet you too," replied Anri, "though I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances."

"Likewise…"

"Oh," Anri turned around, nudging the boy behind her, "this is our good friend Lovino!" The pair grunted mumbled greetings before turning back to their discussion. The boy grunted a greeting, not paying Berwald much attention. He kept his glaring eyes to the floor, face twisted into a scowl. Anri shrugged.

"So how did you get here, friend?" asked Antonio.

"Surpr'se attack," Berwald explained, "hit m'trawler. No contest, really. They didn't find my son though."

"Oh, where was he?"

"Hidden. So he's safe, at least. Worried though. He's so little."

"Is there not someone back home he can turn to?" asked Anri. Berwald shook his head. "I see."

"Gotta get outta here," Berwald hugged his knees, glaring at the wooden floor as a rat scurried over his feet. "He needs me…"

"Well, we're stuck here for the foreseeable future," said Antonio, patting his shoulder. Berwald winced, though he was unsure if it was from pain or hopelessness.

"I left my brothers behind," Anri added sadly.

"Oh?"

"I had two: big brother and little brother," she explained; "my little Luca was kidnapped a few weeks ago, by pirates, nonetheless, though different ones to these northern bastards." Her eyes took on a haunted look as she stared at the ground, ashen-faced with lips pulled into a grimace. "That lot were led by a fierce warrior who is said to be able to kill a hundred sailors in one battle. Sometimes he's a man and sometimes he's a woman, but he's always dangerous. Her brown hair flows like cashmere and her battle cry sends shivers down the spines of even the bravest soldiers. He rules his crew of the wretched and damned with an iron fist, so much so that even her own first mate hates her-"

"You're talking shit again, Baeten!" a voice near the door called.

"Shut up, Borisov!" she yelled back, before turning to Berwald. "This woman stole my baby brother, saying that if we didn't pay the ransom, he'd be killed! So we set out to find him and pay the damned fee; me, Toni, Lovi, and my other brother, Jan boarded one of Jan's ships and set sail, heading north to her- rumoured- favourite haunt. Then _these_ bastards rammed us and we were overpowered! Jan tried to protect me, but," she covered her mouth with a hand, "they…"

"They killed him," Antonio finished, drawing a finger across his throat to illustrate, which caused his friend break down sobbing.

"Tactless moron," muttered Lovino, wrapping an arm around Anri's shoulders, "hey, shh there, don't worry. Jan didn't die in vain. You're still alive, and that's how you're gonna stay! We'll all protect you!"

"But now there's no one left to save Luca!" Anri wailed, "I fear that heartless pirate monarch has already sent him to hell!"

"There's still hope!" Lovino smiled, but it quickly faded, much like the hope for the youngest Baeten sibling.

"I guess I can be safe in the knowledge that there's no reason for harm to befall _my_ brother," commented a young man, barely an adult. He was slouched a few feet away, boredly plaiting his one long lock of dark brown hair. He had a wiry smile upon his face, donned in torn, baggy trousers tucked into thick, black boots. A maroon jacket covered his shirt, both of which were embroidered richly with gold thread. From his feathered hat, and his posture, Berwald guessed he was also a pirate, one who prowled the southern sea that separated two continents. His calm eyes were green and peaceful, a million miles away. The most striking thing about him, though, were the faint bruises and scars across his face, and his broken nose. Dried blood covered his mouth and jaw, but the pirate didn't seem to notice.

"Did Densen do that t'ya?" Berwald asked curiously.

The boy shook his head; "_he_ did!" He jerked his thumb in the direction of another prisoner, whom, Berwald realised, was the man who had shouted at Anri earlier, Borisov.

"You deserved it!" he shot back. Borisov was stocky, with dark, messy hair, sharp green eyes and slight muscles. His outfit also betrayed his roguish profession: ripped white shirt, leggings and brown, leather boots. The scarf around his head was in tatters, and he held a wriggling bundle close to him. Next to the man, were two dark-haired children, neither of the little boys could possibly have been older than seven years of age.

"What'd he do?" Berwald asked.

"He claimed his brother was cuter than all my children!"

"I see. So what did y'do?"

"I punched him. Outside the tavern our crews happened to be visiting at the same time."

The bundle in his arms, which turned out to be a toddler, with shaggy brown hair and bright red eyes, started crying at that, and one of the other boys, the slightly older one, lifted them out of Borisov's arms.

"You know Eugen gets upset by cruel words," he chided, stroking the little boy's hair. Borisov rolled his eyes.

"We were fighting when Densen captured us," the other pirate, with the uneven hair, explained, "luckily, my little brother escaped, but me and Tsvetan over there got caught. Oh, I'm Stylianos Andreou, by the way. It's a bit of a mouthful, huh? Most people call me Stelios."

"Nice t'meet you." Berwald couldn't help but continue to stare at the three little boys gathered around Tsvetan, "he took the ch'ldren too?"

"It seems so," Stelios sighed, "didn't hurt them though. Whipped us unconscious for daring to fight back, but didn't touch the three boys."

"Guess these soulless monsters have _one_ redeeming quality," Antonio commented bitterly.

"I suppose I should introduce the little ones," Tsvetan said, "the black-haired boy's mine," he picked up the chubby five year old sporting a mop of curly black hair, and held him close, "he's Dragomir. The other two are my step-sons," he smiled at them, "so are mine too. The big one is Skender and the little one's Eugen. They're my husband's children."

"And where is y'husband?" asked Berwald.

Tsvetan shrugged, "looking for us, I hope. If his boss permits it…"

"Which they won't," Lovino spoke up, face twisted into a smug grin, "tell them who your boss is, scumbag."

The other glared at him, sticking his jaw out.

"Well?"

Tsvetan looked down; "Érzsebét Héderváry. Or Boldizsár Héderváry, depending."

"The pirate who stole Luca," Anri explained.

"Ah yes," Tsvetan grinned, "I remember seeing him, pretty much where I am here. He looked utterly miserable!"

"Shut up," Anri hissed, trembling.

"All beaten and battered. Hah, he's a beaten Baeten, a bit like you and your other brother!"

"You bastard," Antonio lunged forward, grabbing Tsvetan by his shirt collar. Skender and Dragomir squealed, crawling away, Skender carrying his little brother, who was screaming now. Berwald put his arms around them as the two adults began throwing punches, Anri deciding to join in too.

"Our boss will make a sport out of the kid's death," Tsvetan spat, hoping to get a reaction out of the two. He wasn't disappointed. Anri grabbed a clump of his hair and pulled whilst Antonio booted him in the gut. The pirate lashed out blindly in retaliation, catching Anri in the jaw. Despite the handcuffs, the trio were succeeding in doing considerable damage to each other.

"Someone should break them up," Stelios shrank away, trembling whilst Dragomir buried his face in Berwald's coat.

"No shit!" cried Lovino, pulling at Antonio's shirt, "hey take it easy, old man. You'll bust your fucking face again!"

Antonio glared at Lovino before smacking Tsvetan across the jaw.

"Enough!" A gunshot resounded and everyone in the cell jumped, yelping. Captain Densen stood over them, holding a smoking gun in the air.

He was a tall man, huge feathered hat adding to his height and he was wrapped in a long black coat, with a cravat and waistcoat poking through. Goggles held his messy blond hair out of his forehead and gold chains hung from his neck and shoulders. His scarred face held an almost constant grin.

"What the fuck Mathias?" cried a voice from one of the higher decks, "you almost shot through my foot!"

"Sorry Emil," the Captain called. Then his smile turned to a glower, and he spat on the floor.

"Now, what the hell was all that about?"

"He started it!" cried Tsvetan and Antonio at the same time, pointing at each other.

"They're both to blame," Anri tried, but from her bloodied nose, the Captain guessed she was involved too.

"Well, we can't have fighting among the prisoners, now can we?" He leaned against the cell bars, playing with his gun. "You three are so lucky I need you all alive. That doesn't mean you'll go unpunished though," he added. His cold blue eyes darted between the trio, and he smirked. "Five lashes each will do it."

He glanced at Tsvetan's children, still being shielded by Berwald at the back, and sighed. Eugen was crying feebly, pudgy arms flailing as Skender tried to keep hold of the infant. Dragomir was glancing anxiously at his father.

"I want those children out of here," he ordered, "there's no way they should be down here with you filth."

"What? No!" Tsvetan pulled himself to his feet, "don't take my sons!" He grabbed the bars of the cell, shouting in Mathias' face. "You can't…" he let out a sob, "please…"

"Don't tell me what to do," Mathias growled back, shoving the gun in Tsvetan's face and the other faltered.

"But…"

"Glasses boy, the children," he barked at Berwald. The fisherman pulled himself up, legs trembling from lack of use, and from Tsvetan's look of anguish and betrayal. He led the three boys to the door, and Mathias opened it wide enough for them to stumble through, gun still trained on the prisoners.

"Where are you taking them?" Tsvetan croaked.

"None of your business," Mathias ruffled Skender's hair lovingly, "but I'm not gonna hurt them, don't worry." He turned around, cupping his mouth with his hands; "Ulrike! I have a job for you!"

Footsteps sounded in the distance, and Mathias' teenage daughter burst into the brig.

"Yes dad-I mean Capt?"

"You're on babysitting duty," he told her, lightly pushing the boys towards her.

"Yessir," Ulrike gave a salute, clearly chuffed, and took Dragomir's hand, leading him and the other two away.

"Tatko…" Dragomir whined, craning his neck to catch one last glimpse of his father. Tsvetan gave a small, half-hearted wave.

"They're out of harm's way," Mathias assured him, "you should thank me."

"Oh I'll do one more than that," spat Tsvetan, nostrils flaring, "I'll be sure to return the favour one day. You have two, don't you?"

Mathias became deadly still and deadly quiet; "you'll pay for that remark."

"I don't care. If you hurt even one-" the pirate began, glaring at Mathias with pure contempt.

"I wouldn't. I swear on my soul."

"You have no soul!" Tsvetan screamed, "your heart is so putrid and corrupted that the devil himself spat you back out of hell!"

"Guess I won't feel too bad about what I'm about to do then;" Mathias pulled a whip from its hold in his belt, feeling it with his gloved hands, and grinned maliciously at his prisoners.

…

"The end, now go to sleep." Ulrike snapped the storybook shut, smiling sweetly at the children tucked into one hammock. Eugen was already dozing calmly, squashed next to Skender. At the opposite end, Dragomir also had his eyes closed. Ulrike stood up from her rickety stool, placing the book back in her trunk. The room she shared with her brother, Søren, was small and cramped, full of their possessions. There was little furniture, apart from three hammocks and their trunks, everything shoved into cupboards or left lying on the floor. She absent-mindedly spun an old globe resting on a crate before walking into the corridor.

She found her father almost immediately.

"Are they settled?" he asked, voice hushed as he strode towards her. Ulrike nodded, ignoring the blood splatters on the captain's coat and face. She tried to ignore as much as she could regarding her family's profession, but wasn't naïve enough to deny it outright. It would make no sense, considering she was often involved in the more unsavoury aspects. She tried to shield Søren from it all though, but the kid was far too rebellious- and a downright shit- to pay any attention to her mothering. And it wasn't like the fifteen year old was a small child anymore either.

In addition, Captain Mathias would make sure both of his children were never involved in the worst parts of the job. He had no choice but to allow them to join in on raids, being short on crew and all, but they were always kept below deck whenever Mathias or the other pirates wanted to 'play' with the prisoners. He knew he was sometimes unnecessarily brutal with his captives, but could find no other outlet for the anger and frustration he felt over their whole wretched situation. And it was either bully the prisoners, or bully his crew, and he actually cared for the fates of his crew.

"Yes, fast asleep," Ulrike told him.

"Good. Good." Mathias paused, taking off his gigantic hat and running his hands through his messy hair.

"We are, you know, going to spare the little kiddies, right?" his daughter asked tentatively.

Mathias sighed; "we need as many people as we can find. We can't spare the little ones. They'd only end up getting in the way if we kept them, anyways."

"I'd look after them! I'd make sure they stayed out of the way and raise them myself if I have to!"

"You have other things to do," Mathias growled; "we have no choice. It's us or them! They'll join their father in hell."

"You mean like how Søren and I will join you?"

Mathias flinched. "You know if we don't get enough people… the repercussions… the civilised world would cease to exist… it's for the greater good, I promise."

He stroked her face, staring guiltily at his daughter; then he pulled himself up and walked away without another word.

…

"Hey… Hey Dragomir," Skender hissed, kicking the other boy lightly. Dragomir grunted, opening one eye.

"What?" he mumbled.

"We're not gonna take this, are we?"

Dragomir shrugged.

"We'll rebel! We'll be such little shits that they'll throw us overboard?"

"Why?" Dragomir looked at him boredly, "that will just make us dead."

"Nuh-uh! We can swim back to father! And then he'll get the boss to fight the pirates and rescue Tatko!"

"I can't swim," Dragomir reminded him, "and neither can Eugen."

"Well, the pirates are probably gonna kill us anyway. We might as well make things as difficult for them as possible." Dragomir gulped, and even Eugen sniffled in his sleep.

"I guess… and… it might be fun!" His face said otherwise.

…

Everyone stared in silent horror at Tsvetan's still, limp form, the whole cell too terrified to say a word. The pirate just lay on his stomach, breathing faint and ragged. His shirt was strewn next to him, ripped and bloody. Everything about him was bloody. His hair and trousers were flecked with the stuff, and his back had been ripped open, deep gashes covering the length of it from where he'd been whipped until he'd collapsed, and then whipped some more. The captain seemed to lose himself as he did it, eyes wild and furious. Blood slowly leaked out of the wounds, dripping onto the floor. Berwald swore he could see white ribs poking through the man's flesh.

"Bastard," Antonio muttered, rubbing his own back. Five deep red slashes covered it, stinging as he tentatively brushed his fingers against them. Anri's back was covered in similar marks, but her bulky dress hid them from sight, and Captain Mathias had made sure no one could see her when he gave them, so she could retain some privacy.

Tsvetan, however, had been given no mercy.

"Will he l've?" Berwald asked no one in particular.

"Who knows," replied Lovino, "I don't think the bastards want us dead just yet, so probably."

"Looks pretty bad though," Stelios added, poking Tsvetan with his boot. The other groaned.

"He'll live," the man told them, poking him again.

"Fuck off…" Tsvetan grunted before letting out another sob.

"See?"

Berwald was torn between relief and dread. What kind of horrifying world had he been thrown into? What did fate even have in store for him? How long would he remain alive? He wondered what purpose him and the other captives would serve. Were they to be sold on? Were the pirates hoping to demand ransom from their relatives? Berwald's heart sank. Björn would never be able to afford what they demanded. Then he remembered what the captain had told him, about how he'd been taken because he appeared to be alone in the world.

He snarled; what were those bastards' motives?

…

**Sorry for the slight delay, but it was a hella long chapter and I had a lot of things to do. Oh, and Tatko is Bulgarian for dad.**

**Might try to update something else now.**


	4. The shadows of society

_Franz- Kugelmugel_

…

_Back to the micronation boys; this chapter has a mix of canon and oc characters._

_Warning for a small drugs reference at the end._

…

"What the hell are you doing here?" asked Björn, pulling his brother up.

"I think I'm the one who should be asking that," Peter said as he straightened his top hat, readjusting the goggles strapped around it. He'd gotten slightly taller in the past two years, though that could've been the hat adding to his supposed height. He was dressed nearly entirely in blue: blue coat, blue scarf, blue breeches and a blue hat. His waistcoat was cream though, and his shirt was white. His whole outfit was also very grimy, covered in mud, soot and dirt, like he'd been sleeping rough. His face had aged too, less boyish and round, and his hair was messier than Björn remembered, and he altogether looked more like a man than the boy that had left them all that time ago.

"I… something big has happened. I don't want to explain it five times over, so you'll find out when I get everyone together-"

"Whoa, whoa," Peter raised his hands, "whoa, slow down there. What happened? Is everyone back home alright?"

"What do you mean 'everyone'?" cried Björn, "there's just me and Papa Berwald left. Well, just me left now."

"What happened to our other brothers?" Peter raised a bushy eyebrow, and Björn glared at him.

"They're with you, in the city."

A sailor pushed past them, and Peter wrapped an arm around his little brother's shoulder.

"Walk and talk with me," he said, leading Björn out of the dockyards into a busy street. Björn stumbled behind him, struggling with his duffel bag. People wheeled carts through the cobbled streets, whilst others sold from markets and trays. Children ducked between them, playing and shouting.

"Where are we going?" Björn asked.

"My place," Peter winked before his smile fell; "look, what do you mean everyone's here?"

"As in, I'm the only brother to have remained behind with Papa Berwald. Even Eemeli pissed off to the city!"

"But he's a little kid!" Peter shook his head, "anyway, I haven't seen anyone here. The only brother I've met in the last two years is Yrjan, and even then, we're not really in contact."

"But… Hemming! Lars!" Björn cried, "you're telling me you haven't seen hide nor hair of the bastards since they got here?"

"_If_ they got here," Peter added with a grimace.

"Don't, please…"

"Look, maybe Yrjan knows!" Peter tried, "ask _them_."

"I would if I knew where he was!" Björn rolled his eyes, "you'll have to take me to him."

"But…" Peter paused, "Yrjan… they changed! And not in a good way. I don't really want to be around them, and their new friend doesn't like me much. Couldn't I give you their last known address instead?"

"No," Björn glared at him, "I need you all together so I can talk to you. Papa Berwald is in danger and we need to work together to save him!"

"He's in _danger_?" Peter gasped; "what happened?"

"I'll tell you when you bring me the others," Björn growled, "it'll take all of us to help him."

"Fine. But I have work tonight, so we'll look for the rest tomorrow."

"Fair enough," Björn nodded, and they walked in silence. The area Peter led him to seemed to be getting more and more dingy and sordid. Shadowy figures glared at them from doorways and side streets. The uneven floor was covered in filth and dirty water from a leaky pump in the nearby square. People in cloaks and tattered dresses pushed past them, and skeletal children, huddled in a group in the gutter, stared forlornly at the pair. The grimy, narrow buildings towered above them, blocking out most of the daylight that managed to seep through the polluted, sooty sky. Rats scurried about, chased by mangy, flee-ridden dogs that looked like wolves to Björn. He whimpered.

"Hey, don't worry," Peter cooed, suddenly the protective older brother Björn knew and remembered, "you're safe with me." His words echoed those of Berwald, who had said them countless times whenever Björn felt afraid of water, the open sea or even the Hillevi herself. It was only now that he knew how empty those words were. No one could truly guarantee his safety, or even their own.

"So, where do you work?" he asked, desperate to change the subject.

"Here and there," Peter shrugged, "I do stand up comedy at whatever place will have me. I never get booked at the same place twice."

"Oh, does it pay well?"

Peter laughed bitterly; "does it hell! I barely get enough bookings to buy food!"

"I see," Björn looked down.

"Hey don't look like that;" Peter flicked Björn's hat, "not your fault the world doesn't appreciate my ingenious wit."

"You'll get there, one day," Björn patted his brother's back. Peter winked, touching the brim of his hat.

"Oh, that reminds me," Björn continued, "what's with the top hat? I thought only rich people could wear those kinds."

"Yes," Peter shrugged, "but I'm an exception."

"How?"

"I desperately need it."

"Why?"

"…Yrjan grew taller than me and that's unacceptable."

Björn groaned. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Is that why you're so reluctant to meet him?"

"No," Peter paused, "look, a lot of things have happened while we were here, and I'm not sure Yrjan is a very nice person anymore."

"I don't care! He's my brother and I need to see him!"

"You will, tomorrow." Björn was about to point out that their father might not survive til tomorrow, but he was interrupted by Peter nudging him roughly. "Here we go!" he cried, shoving his brother into an alley.

"What? What am I supposed to be looking at here?"

"My place!" cried Peter, "home sweet bin." Peter's 'home' turned out to be little more than a corner of an alley, behind a pile of rubbish. There was a dirty blanket lying on the floor, and a cardboard box full of a few meagre possessions, but nothing else.

"Brother…" Björn murmured, suddenly feeling small, "I had no idea…"

"Yeah, things are a bit rough at the moment," Peter admitted with a sigh, "but… guess that's how life goes."

"Why didn't you come home?"

"And admit to myself and others that I failed?" Peter shook his head, "even if I could bring myself to sink that low, how could I have afforded it?"

"Saving up, little by little?" Björn suggested; "look, no one back home would've thought you were a failure. We'd just be happy that you were safe and alive!"

"But _I'd _feel like I let myself down, and no amount of comfort would have changed that. No wonder my own mother didn't want me." Peter stared at the ground, stuffing his hands in his pockets and scraping the sole of his boot along the floor. Björn could only nod.

"Your mother may not have wanted you, but Papa Berwald certainly did. That's why he picked you to not only be his child, but his first one! That's gotta count for something, right?"

"C'mon," Peter perked up, winking at his brother, "we need to get you a last minute ticket to my show!"

…

"I'm sure the theatre's round here somewhere," Peter frowned as he looked around the square. It was in a richer area of the city, and smartly dressed people milled around, carrying parasols and suitcases, children in frilly dresses scampering around with metal and wooden toys. Above them, a train rattled past on elevated rails, making its way to the nearby station, having come all the way from a city up north. A group of musicians played on the bandstand in the centre as automobiles rattled past.

It was evening now, and the sun painted the sky a dirty orange colour, its various hues obscured by the near-constant cloud. It had taken them the whole day to get here, since Peter kept getting lost, not entirely sure where said theatre even was. They must've walked halfway across the city by now.

"What about _that_ place?" Björn pointed to a particularly dazzling building. The pair looked exactly the same as they did the previous night, and Björn still carried his heavy duffle bag, though it as considerably lighter after the large meals of fish the boys had for both dinner and breakfast. It was the first time Björn had seen a true streak of happiness within Peter since they'd been reunited.

He was trying to avoid the topic of last night's performance as much as he could, but Peter would bring it up every hour or so, desperate for his little brother's opinion. The truth was: Peter was a terrible comedian. All he did was stand on a stage awkwardly making the most cliché, terrible puns imaginable, and put down audience members that booed him, which were quite a few. He was good with a comeback, but his main material was shoddy and boring. No wonder no one booked him twice in a row.

Of course, Björn just gave a weak smile and told Peter he was hilarious each time. The other seemed to believe him.

"Yes!" Peter cried, snapping his fingers and grinning at the building.

"So he works there then?"

"I hope so," Peter flinched under his brother's glare, "what? I haven't seen them in months!"

"You're as useful as knitted boots," Björn hissed, striding towards the theatre. He splashed through puddles and barged past other people, only stopping to check for traffic before crossing the road. Peter hurried behind him.

He stopped before the glass doors, which had a 'closed' sign glued to them, slipping inside. The lobby was covered in thick red carpet, dotted with stains from drink spilled and food trampled into it. Leaflets and flyers littered the place, strewn haphazardly across the floor. The chandelier above them flickered as a draught whistled past the candles, some of the pieces of glass missing or broken. It was not a place that matched the glamour and noise outside.

"What a shithole," he muttered.

"Indeed," replied Peter behind him, "must be having money issues or something. Still, this isn't where the cast come in and out. We need to use a different door."

He pulled Björn back outside, leading him to a side street running alongside the left of the theatre. They stopped before a door with red, chipped paint, marked 'backstage', and Peter pushed it open. Björn caught a glimpse of a dingy corridor before the door slammed in their faces.

"Ow," Peter whined, covering his nose.

"We don't do autographs," someone on the other side growled, "and no fans are allowed backstage."

"Franz you idiot! We're not fans, we're Yrjan's brothers!" Peter shoved the door harshly with his shoulder, but it wouldn't budge.

"All the more reason not to let you in," Franz shot back.

"But why not?" Peter wailed, leaning against the door and banging it lightly with his fists.

"You smell terrible, and smelling bad isn't art!"

"Again with the art bullshit," Peter rolled his eyes, standing back, "look, Edelstein, let me tell you about Peter Oxenstjärna-Väinämöinen's hierarchy of needs: my basic needs are food, money and drink, then shelter and theatre tickets, then comics, applause and a job. And _then_ comes washing. Do you understand now?"

"You're so fucking weird," was all Franz said in reply.

"You're one to talk! Now let us in!"

"No."

"Do it!"

"Don't want to."

"Franz Gottlieb Edelstein, you're an utter shit!"

"I know," there was a giggle from behind the door.

"Um, excuse me," Björn piped up, stepping forward and resting his hands against the door, "this is really important, and I need to see Yrjan right away! His father is in danger!"

"Who are you?"

"His little brother!"

"Another? I didn't know they had more than one!"

"He has five…"

"Really? They only mentioned Peter, and that's only cause the brat kept showing up."

"Oh," Björn looked down, "well, I'm here now, and I need to talk to him."

"I understand," Franz opened the door slightly, ushering the boy in. They tried to close the door on Peter, but the other forced his way in, snarling.

"Oh no you don't," he growled, "where Björn goes, I go!"

"Have it your way," Franz replied, sighing. They were slightly younger than Peter, with a pointed face and sharp features. They stuck their slightly upturned nose at the older brother, glowering at him with lilac eyes, grey around the edges and looking almost flat and dead, like something was sucking the life out of the teen. Their hair was white, and tied a messy ponytail that fell to their waist, with one odd curl in their fringe sticking up like a little antenna. There was a tiny, feathered hat clipped onto their head, hanging at an angle. They were dressed in a short skirt, with a longer, frilly one on top, covering their back and sides. Black stockings and boots covered their legs, and on their torso was a shirt, purple jacket and a ribbon around the collar, and around their waist there was a purple sash.

"Um, where is Yrjan?" Björn asked, tugging Franz's jacket lightly.

"This way," Franz wrapped an arm around him, turning around and completely ignoring Peter. They led Björn down a dark corridor, illuminated by the odd candle in a holder nailed to the wall. The wallpaper was deep red, faded and stained by time and misuse.

"You stink too," Franz commented.

"I'm a fisherman! Of course I stink!"

Franz just chuckled, continuing to lead him forwards. Björn couldn't help but be in awe of the child, so graceful and fierce, yet sorrowful too.

"I have to ask," he piped up, "are you a boy or a girl? I can't really tell…"

"What a wonderful thing to hear!" Franz squealed, "to know that I've achieved androgyny! Truth is, I am both, well, I'm every gender at once, if that makes sense."

"Not really…"

"You'll have to excuse him," Peter butted in, "he's spent too long in a tiny village and doesn't really know much."

"Oy!"

"It's true though," Peter shrugged, "look, just try not to see Franz as a boy or a girl, and we'll explain a bit more when we have time."

"Fine." Björn nodded.

Franz slowed down slightly, looking over their shoulder and mouthing a 'thanks' at Peter, who just shrugged sheepishly.

Soon enough, the trio stopped at a door marked 'Yrjan' and Franz knocked politely.

"Come in," came the gentle, accented voice of Yrjan Oxenstjärna-Väinämöinen. Björn obeyed, pushing the door open and catching sight of his brother for the first time in nearly two years.

Yrjan certainly had grown taller, but seemed to have gained no weight, and had become even lankier, to the point where they were almost bony. Their face was long, with sharp cheekbones and dull blue eyes. They were dressed in a similar outfit to Franz, but each garment was a different, clashing, colour, and they wore a bow-tie around their neck instead of a ribbon. Their long, blond hair hung loose and past their shoulder blades like it always had, thin and flat. Tired, baggy eyes glanced over at the trio as they applied makeup to their face.

"Peter? Björn? You've come to visit?"

"I've come to bring news," Björn corrected, stepping forward, "Papa Berwald is in grave danger, and I've come to gather everyone together so we can save him!"

"Danger? What kind of danger?" Yrjan sat up, rouge mouth forming an 'o' shape and their eyes wide.

"I can't talk about it," Björn replied, "not until I've found everyone so I can tell you all at once."

"And where is 'everyone'?"

Björn shrugged, "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me. The rest of our brothers are somewhere in the city, but neither Peter or I have a clue where."

"That's funny," Yrjan pulled his lips into a frown, "I've been exchanging the odd letter with Hemming and Lars for a while now, but Eemeli's here too? I thought _he'd_ at least have stayed home!"

"He ran away," Björn grimaced.

"Should've known," Yrjan rolled their eyes.

"So you can get in contact with Hemming and Lars?" Peter butted in.

"Of course! I'll give you their address and you can find them tomorrow. Bring them back here and I'll give you all tickets for the show, then after we can look for our bratty youngest brother." They groaned at that, rubbing their temples. "Even the thought of Eemeli is already making me ill."

"He has that effect," Björn commented. Then he suddenly dashed over to his brother, enveloping them in a tight hug.

"Hey what's that all about?" joked Yrjan as they returned the hug.

"I missed you so much!" Björn buried his face in his brother's shirt, tears prickling in his eyes. He was exhausted and bursting with emotion. He was overjoyed to find his brothers, but terrified of what had happened to their father, and the eleven year old just needed the comforting words and warmth of someone older, someone who would reassure and help him, even if the words were false and desperate. He just needed to become a small chid again, and let someone else shoulder the responsibility, if only for a while.

"Hey I never got the waterworks when you first met me!" cried Peter indignantly.

"Too shocked," Björn explained, holding out a hand for him. Peter grinned, bounding forward. The three brothers held each other close for a whole minute, then Yrjan pulled away.

"I love you both and all," they began, "but gosh you stink!"

"Sorry," Peter muttered, giggling.

"Um, Yrjan," Björn piped up, "why are you dressed as a girl?" Peter groaned and Yrjan stiffened.

"I'm not. I'm dressed as myself. These clothes aren't for boys or girls, just as I am neither a boy nor a girl."

"But…"

"Up here," Yrjan tapped their forehead, "there are no boy thoughts, or girl thoughts, just me thoughts. I don't see myself as either, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't either."

"Got it, I think." Björn gave a firm nod, and Yrjan smiled warmly.

"So, now you've said what you needed to," began Franz, "maybe you should leave. We have to perform soon, you know?"

"Err, right," Björn thought of last night, and how he'd been curled up in that alley, wrapped in Peter's arms whilst he clung to his duffle bag. It was an uncomfortable, fitful sleep, and he'd been convinced someone would slit their throats and make away with their few possessions, thus it took a long time for him to settle down to sleep, and every time he began drift off, he'd heard a noise just on the edge of his consciousness, and was awoken once again. The floor had been dirty and wet too. The rats nibbled at his fingers and hair, and it had altogether been the worst night of his life.

"Oh not at all!" cried Yrjan, "how inhospitable of you, Franz!"

"Yeah, Edelstein!" echoed Peter smugly.

"I insist that you stay here with me! Although I can't give you tickets to tonight's show, I can give you a bed."

"You mean the smelly boys are staying the night?" groaned Franz.

"Tonight, and every other night," Yrjan gave a firm nod, "as long as they need a place."

"But… our boss!"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," nevertheless, Yrjan shuddered at the mention of said boss. "I'll make sure they're out of sight."

"Really?" Björn grinned at them, "thank you so much!" He wondered why Peter had been so reluctant to meet their sibling. Yrjan had been nothing but kind, and there was no apparent darker part to their personality. Maybe Peter just hadn't wanted to see Franz again. He glanced over at the oldest brother, and found he was eyeing Yrjan nervously, like the other was a viper preparing to strike.

"It's no problem," Yrjan laughed, "I guessed Peter wasn't taking care of you properly."

"Hey!"

"Well, he was! But… he's pretty down on his luck and doesn't have a place to go, but he tried!"

"Is that true?" Yrjan asked their brother.

Peter nodded, face red, "my career hit a few snags…"

"You poor dear," Yrjan jumped up, pulling Peter into another hug, "no wonder you're freezing and wet!"

A stage hand poked their head in the door way, nodding at the two performers.

"Five minutes," they said before leaving.

"That's our cue," Yrjan nodded at Franz, "mine and Franz's quarters are up the stairs, you'll find them no problem. I'll try to steal some backstage passes for you tomorrow, so people won't question why you're wandering about."

"Thank you," Björn repeated.

"Just stay hidden," Yrjan finished their make up, hurriedly applying black eyeliner, then they and Franz hurried out the door.

"And for the love of god," Yrjan added, poking their head through the door, "could the both of you please take a bath!"

…

Björn sat in a large dressing gown, which trailed past his bare feet. The thing was huge and seemed to consume him, deep red and floral patterns around the edges. He didn't mind the size though, as the dressing gown was warm and comfortable. He was fresh from a bath, hair still damp, and warming his hands on a mug of hot chocolate, perched on a creaky stool in front of the fire, where his clothes were drying off after being thoroughly washed.

On the other side of the room, Peter rummaged through Yrjan's belongings.

The quarters were made up of one large room, with smaller rooms coming off it, partitioned by thin curtains that swayed in the draught.

Björn, for the first time in days, allowed himself to relax, feeling safe and content. There was still that nagging feeling, that his father was still in grave danger, and that events were moving far too slowly for the boy's liking, but for now he pushed those aside, and focused on what he'd achieved. He found two siblings in two days, and had the means of finding another two. He frowned slightly, remembering how he had no idea where the youngest brother had hidden himself, and no leads, but decided not to think about that. He remembered what Eemeli was like, and realised the boy would never be able to stay quiet and hidden for long. He was too much… like his Isi.

He heard a clatter behind him, and turned around to find Peter elbow-deep in Yrjan's trunk, pulling out various bits of cloth, make up, books, boots, cloaks, goggles, and watches on chains, and dumping them on the floor after fiddling with them.

"Yrjan will throw a fit if they see you going through their stuff," he commented, making a conscious effort to refer to both Franz and Yrjan as 'they' when he talked about them, and although he'd constantly slipped up at first, an evening of practice had really paid off. Peter just shrugged.

"What Yrjan doesn't know won't hurt them," he replied, "besides, I wanna see what cool showbiz shit they have lying around."

"You're bored, aren't you?" Björn raised an eyebrow.

Peter nodded, turning around and grinning. It was an obvious lie, but Björn was too scared to bring up the truth: that Peter didn't trust Yrjan.

He was wrapped up in Yrjan's thick pyjamas, rosy pink, with more floral patterns embroidered up and down the legs and sleeves. His damp hair, Björn noticed, was a few shades lighter than before his bath, highlighting how grimy the young man had gotten.

"Why don't you sit with me?" Björn suggested, "you can tell me what happened since you got here, if you're comfortable talking about it, that is," he added nervously.

"Not much to say, but fine," Peter peered back in the trunk, "in a few minutes… I'll find something soon, I can feel it…" He stopped, leaning forward and plucking something out of the trunk. Björn craned his neck to see, and found Peter holding a small, glass pipe. The boy sniffed it lightly, giving the thing a gentle shake before pocketing it.

"Yrjan Odin Oxenstjärna-Väinämöinen," he muttered, "you're in so much trouble when I find you…"

…

**Dun dun dun? Well, at least things are picking up now, and I promise there will only be a few more chapters on land before all the real action starts.**

**Yeah, I should probably mention Franz/Kugelmugel and Jamtland/Yrjan are non-binary (pangender and agender, respectively). I thought that because this is alternate history, it would be fine to add. Hey, I have pirates and sea monsters, so why not lgbt+ and nb characters? Not doing any harm.**

**Might be slow with updates for this, as I want to work on something else for a bit.**


	5. The boys of oil and steel

_Enter more characters! Including new brothers. Exclusively new brothers!_

_Sorry for being inactive recently._

_Warnings for physical abuse at the start of this chapter._

…

Björn awoke to a feeling of content and peace, carried on from the previous evening. He refused to be pessimistic about his situation; he was warm, fed, and had already found two siblings. The only thing to mar his seemingly perfect evening was his fear that Peter would confront Yrjan about that mysterious glass pipe, but, to his surprise, he didn't bring it up when their sibling finally stumbled in around midnight, exhausted, and meandered over to their bed, flopping on top of it, still fully dressed, and started dozing off. Okay, maybe it wasn't such a surprise. Björn and Peter had helped them into pyjamas, and the three teens snuggled into the same bed, tangled together and snoring noisily. Franz wandered in a few minutes later, unnoticed and making their way over to their own bed, kicking their boots off and diving under the blankets.

Now the morning light was creeping in through the small, round windows, rays turned multicoloured by the thin curtains they passed through. The whole room shone with reds, purples, greens and blues, and Björn looked at his new, temporary residence through half-lidded, sleepy eyes. Franz had disappeared, their bed sheets strewn messily across the floor, along with last night's clothes. The two beds were in a small room off to the side; and through the curtains and chains of beads nailed to the ceiling between that and the main room, Björn could see the heavy, wooden dining table in front of the fire. The thing was littered with the two show-kid's possessions, as was pretty much every other surface. Another small side-room contained a sink and metal tub, whilst another was used as a storeroom for food and costumes.

Björn wondered what kind of work Yrjan and Franz did every night. Neither of them had had the time to tell him, and Peter remained vague and ignorant on the subject. He hoped it wasn't something sinister, and feared for his sibling, but told himself he was being silly. Besides, he'd find out tonight! Yrjan had guaranteed them all tickets, so it couldn't be _that_ bad.

He just peered over the covers for a few minutes longer, taking in the peaceful silence and the warmth of his siblings either side of him. Then Franz burst into the room and the peace was gone.

"He's coming!" the teen cried, bounding over to the trio and shaking Yrjan awake, "the boss is coming!"

"What?" Yrjan shot up, looking at their friend in horror.

"He'll be here any second!"

Yrjan swore, jumping out of bed and shaking their brothers roughly. Peter blinked, sitting up and grinning lazily at the duo.

"I must admit," he began, "it's lovely sleeping in a real bed again."

"That's great and all, but you need to hide! Our boss doesn't know you're here, and he can't ever know!" Yrjan pulled a protesting Björn to his feet, "get under the bed, both of you!" Björn quietened and nodded, and rolled under Yrjan's bed whilst Peter dashed over to Franz's one. They'd both only just managed to hide themselves when a short, but very stocky, man threw the door open. His beady black eyes scanned the room under heavy eyebrows, and his mouth was pulled into a snarl. His dark hair was shorn into a crew cut, thick arms tense and beefy hands clenched. The elaborately styled suit this gorilla of a man wore was almost comical, if those who saw it weren't too terrified to laugh. No one would dare do such a thing in front of the boss.

"You," he growled at his two performers, jabbing a grubby finger in their direction.

"Yes sir?" asked Franz, stepping forward whilst Yrjan busied themselves with cleaning up the sheets and clothes strewn about.

"Why aren't you rehearsing?!"

"It's our day off, sir," Franz replied calmly, though their tremble was visible.

"Well it's not anymore!" The boss marched over to them, heavy boots thundering against the wooden floor, "you're getting lazy! And sloppy! I saw your performance yesterday! Shoddy! Disgraceful! You're making me lose money!" He leaned closer to Franz, grabbing a chunk of their silvery hair, "and you both remember what happened last time you lost me profit!"

Björn couldn't see Franz clearly, but he saw Yrjan- who was kneeling on the floor gathering blankets- instinctively reach for their neck.

"Yes sir," Franz gasped, "we'll practice more, I swear! But not today. We made plans…"

The boss growled, striking Franz across the face. _That_ Björn saw, and he had to clamp both hands over his mouth to stop himself from crying out as the child hit the floor.

"Well, you're just gonna have to cancel them! You're rehearsing today and that's final!" He leaned down, grabbing Franz by the ear and yanking their head up, the kid's body twisted and shaking all over. "Don't forget I own you."

He let go of Franz, and the child slumped against the floor. The boss began to walk away, glaring over his shoulder at them. "I'll see you both at rehearsals," he stated as he opened the door; "oh, and be a good boy and put some make up on. Your cheek has gone rather red."

Franz brushed his fingers against their sore cheek, where they'd been hit, eyes burning with tears.

"Yes sir," they whispered.

When the man left, a horrified silence fell over the four children, each too scared to move. Then, after what felt like an age, Peter crawled out from under Franz's bed.

"So this is what you have to live with?" That wasn't a question. Yrjan just nodded as they gathered up the last items of clothes, dropping them on the pile of used garments covering a trunk.

"You get used to it," they said, refusing to look their brother in the eye.

"I won't. And I don't want you living here!"

"Where else can we go?" Yrjan cried; "with you? Back to your alley?"

"We'd get by," even Peter wasn't convinced by his desperate words, whispered with a broken, cracked voice.

"You know we wouldn't," Yrjan replied bitterly, "but thanks for the offer."

Björn, meanwhile, had crawled out and walked over to Franz, helping them up.

"Thanks, kid," they said, wandering over to a mirror, picking up an ornate box and opening it, pulling out foundation and blusher and getting to work, covering the red mark on their face. Björn followed them, watching them closely as they stroked their face with coloured brushes.

"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Franz admitted, smiling grimly, "but I don't mind."

"How odd."

Franz chuckled, "not so odd if you understand. What would you prefer: getting knocked about a bit or starving to death in a gutter somewhere?"

"Neither, really," Björn rested his hands on the dressing table, staring curiously at the make up. He couldn't picture a life with that much desperation, with a choice between dying and living in constant fear, yet it seemed to be all around him, making up the foundations of his siblings' lives. He wondered if there was anyone he knew back home in his village that did the same, walking among their friends and acquaintances with such a horrific secret. But of course: he knew two!

"My mummy ran away," he piped up, "when her husband kept hitting her, and my brother Lars. She got away!"

"Didn't your father track her down and kill her?" Yrjan asked with a raised eyebrow, quietly changing into a waistcoat and breeches, completing their outfit with leather boots.

Björn whimpered, nodding. "But that won't happen with you! If we run far enough, then your boss won't find us!" He thought for a moment, then grinned, grabbing Franz's sleeve. The child flinched, and Björn quickly let go, apologising. "Come with us, Franz! Come help us find Papa Berwald and live on our fishing trawler! You'll be safe in the middle of the sea!"

"Wait, wasn't your father some abusive dickhead?"

Björn shook his head, "my birth father was, but Papa Berwald is a different man! He took us all in as little kids."

"It's true," Yrjan added.

"I see," Franz looked at him with even eyes, "so none of you are related then?"

"Well, me and Lars are, but not the rest of us. Not that it really matters, of course."

"Of course!"

"We're still brothers!" Björn glanced at Yrjan and faltered, "um, I mean…"

"I don't mind being your brother," Yrjan waved their hand airily, "it's just everything else where I am genderless."

"Right, got it! So will you come?" Björn looked at Franz expectantly, bristling with excitement.

"I don't think either of us can, I'm afraid," Yrjan walked over to him.

"But you can't stay here!" Peter bounded forward, "you could get killed!"

"And we won't if we board a leaky trawler and go chasing after Papa?" Yrjan raised an eyebrow, "look, there are things you don't understand. We can't leave!"

"Please," Björn begged, "I need all of you."

"You'll manage," Yrjan patted him on the head, "now, go find Hemming and Lars while we're gone, and bring them here. Then we can talk about Eemeli."

"But…"

"Björn," Yrjan glared at him harshly as they followed Franz to the door, "I'm not budging on the subject. Just drop it."

…

"Why won't Yrjan leave?" Björn asked Peter as the pair walked along a busy lane. Peter didn't answer, continuing to glare at the scrap of paper in his hand, and Yrjan's loopy handwriting written across it, spelling out an address.

"Are they too scared to?"

Still no reply.

"I don't want either of them staying with that horrible man."

Peter nodded, holding his brother's hand tightly but not saying anything.

"Do you think the pipe you found has something to do with it?"

"Oh god I hope not," Peter covered his mouth, looking at Björn in horror.

"What is that thing anyway?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," Peter looked away.

"Why didn't you ask Yrjan about it last night?"

"The kid was exhausted!" cried Peter, "I'll just have to find an opportunity where they're not tired or terrified."

"And where I'm not around?"

"…This is not for children's ears, okay?"

"Listen, Peter," Björn turned to face him, grabbing his coat, "I've seen things that would terrify adults! What happened with Papa Berwald… I have a right to know what's going on with my family!"

"As do I!" Peter shouted back, "but I don't hear you spilling the beans on what happened to our father!"

There was a pause before Björn spoke again. "I'll tell you all tonight, if you tell me what that pipe means after."

"Fine," Peter growled, beginning to walk forward, "but I'm not saying a word until you do."

"Noted."

…

"Is this the place?" Björn asked, stepping closer to Peter and clinging to his coat. The duo stood in front of a run down garage- doors flung wide open in the midday heat- where mechanics bustled about, poking and prodding at an old automobile with screwdrivers and spanners, not paying any attention to the two boys.

"I think so," Peter shrugged, "looks like somewhere they'd enjoy working at, so…" he strode forward, tapping the nearest mechanic on the shoulder and smiling politely.

"Yes?" she asked with a smile.

"Um, do you know if Hemming or Lars works here?"

"Work here? They own the place!"

"What?" Peter looked at her in disbelief, "you're joking with me!"

"Not at all," she wrinkled her nose, folding her arms defensively, "the brothers founded this garage! We all work for them."

"Seriously? Wow," Peter blinked in shock.

"So can we meet them?" Björn stepped forward.

"Who the hell are you two?"

"Their brothers," Peter explained.

"More brothers?" the mechanic sighed, "go on then, I guess. Their office is at the back. You can't miss it!"

"Thanks!" Peter grabbed Björn's hand, dashing past the car, the other workers and metal parts. Björn wanted to stop and look at all the curious objects piled on tables and hanging from the walls, but Peter pulled him on.

They reached a door marked 'Oxenstjärna-Väinämöinen' and knocked loudly. No answer.

"Maybe they didn't hear," Peter tried again, but once more they were met by silence. The boy shrugged, pushing the door open to reveal stairs spiralling downward. He exchanged glances with Björn before beginning to descend.

The stone walls were cold and sooty, and Björn clung to his brother's coat as he followed him downwards, footsteps echoing against the flagstone. In the distance, they heard a clanging and the whirring of a drill.

"Gee, I wonder who that could be," Peter grinned as he rounded the last corner, and the brothers found themselves in an enormous workroom. It was big as three classrooms, and filled with tables, half-finished projects and tools. Clockwork robots lay slumped against the wall in the corner, missing limbs, heads and insides. Broken engines were scattered across the floor and spanners hung from the walls. At the end of the room, Hemming sat with his back to the door, hammering away at an upturned car and oblivious to his surroundings. Peter was about to call out to him, when someone else barred their way.

"Oy, no staff allowed in the workroom!" cried a tall man, jumping in front of them.

"Well it's a good thing we're not staff then, Lars," Peter replied with a grin.

Lars had shot up in height since Björn last saw him, and was now taller than Peter even, much to the latter's obvious horror. His baggy trousers were tucked into light brown boots, and held up by braces, as they were far too big for the lanky teen. His dark green pullover was tucked into said trousers, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and he too wore one of Björn's homemade scarves. A flat-cap covered his greasy ginger hair and round, wire glasses framed his royal-blue eyes. However much his physical appearance had changed, Lars was still the same boy he had been when Björn last saw him. The arrogance and need for a challenge shone out of his fierce eyes, and his mouth was pulled into his usual smirk. He had grown, and become more successful, but he was still Björn's messy, grumpy, sun-dodging big brother.

"Lars!" he cried as he pulled the boy into a hug, tightly clinging to him and letting out a sob. Lars had been the brother he'd needed to see most, as he was the brother Björn constantly worried about. His other brothers were odd and reckless, but Lars was younger than them, and thought less before he made decisions. Björn knew the life he'd had, and just wanted to wrap this brother up in blankets and make sure nothing bad ever happened to him, but Lars would never allow it, so he settled for worrying about him from afar.

There was Eemeli too- the youngest and most brash sibling whom Björn had been closest to- but right now he'd washed his hands of the boy. Eemeli was almost dead to him, but not just yet.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing here?" Lars laughed as he hugged his brother back.

"Big trouble, apparently," Peter told him, "concerning Papa Berwald. But Björn's being stingy with the details."

"I said I was telling everyone tonight!" Björn shot back, scowling.

"Hey slow down! What's going on?" Lars glanced between his brothers.

"Papa Berwald's in danger," Björn explained, "and I need you all to help me save him."

"What kind of danger?"

"I'll tell you tonight, along with Peter, Yrjan and Hemming," Björn glanced past him.

"Oh, right, Hemming," Lars wheeled round, "I don't think he's noticed us. But Yrjan's involved too?"

"I'll go talk to him," Björn darted forward, paying the other two no more attention. He trotted over to his other brother and tapped him on the shoulder.

Hemming gave a yelp, jumping up and wheeling round, spanner raised defensively.

"Lars! I've told you not to-" His eyes caught sight of Björn, and he tilted his head, "hey, you're not Lars! What're you doing here, little bro?"

"Long story…" Björn took in his older brother's appearance, which had changed even more drastically than Lars' had.

Hemming's hair was longer, greasy and messy and sticking up everywhere, almost completely covering the goggles he wore on his head. He was dressed in a long lab coat that had probably been white when he'd bought it, but was now a greyish brown, with one of the sleeves ripped off. A cream vest, dark apron, breeches and long, grey boots made up the rest of his outfit, and around his neck was Björn's green scarf. Björn took all those things in quickly, focusing on the biggest change in his brother:

One of his arms was missing.

Hemming's left arm had been replaced with a prosthetic one, a hissing, metal contraption that scared Björn.

"What the hell is that?" he gasped.

"Oh, right," Hemming looked down at his hand. "to cut a long story short, I kinda got caught in a machine on a visit to one of our partners- a factory the makes tires- and would've died if Lars hadn't pulled me out. Don't even know what happened! I just zoned out and crunch! The pain… My arm was pretty mangled, and they had to amputate it."

"You poor thing!" Björn wrapped his arms around his brother's neck.

"Hey it was ages ago," Hemming shrugged, "and besides, I got to make myself a new arm!" He held out his hand, turning it and clenching it into a fist, like one would if they were admiring their muscles. "Pretty proud of it. That's why I never bothered to get a new coat, want everyone to see it."

"Good old Hemming," Björn laughed; of course Hemming would be sure to take credit for his own work, "looks great."

"Oh you don't know the half of it," Hemming sat back down on his little stool, "I fitted a load of functions!"

"And I'm sure you'll tell me all about them," Björn sighed.

Peter, meanwhile, had turned on his younger brother.

"How dare you be taller than me!" he cried, taking his hat off and waving it in Lars' face. Lars just rolled his eyes.

"Oh it's not _that _big a deal."

"Yes it is! Its bad enough Yrjan's taller than me, but that's fair 'cause they're the same age as me. But you! You're two years younger! Stop growing!"

Las scoffed; "aww, is someone jealous?"

"No," Peter's face screwed up into a snarl.

"That explains the hat," Lars laughed, "I knew you were compensating for _something_, but I thought…" he coughed, raising his eyebrows.

"Shut up!"

"That's why you're wearing it, isn't it?"

"No! Shut up! You're a shit!"

Lars just laughed. "Don't worry, tiny foreigner, maybe you'll drink a potion that'll turn you into a giant!"

"Hey," Peter raised his hands, "I may be short, but you're ginger, so who's the real winner here?"

"You bastard!" Lars cried before turning and running to his other brothers. "Hemming! Tell Peter he's a meanie bastard!"

Hemming wasn't listening though, too preoccupied with explaining to Björn the different 'cool things' his arm could do. It turned out this arm of his didn't just end in a hand, but several other tools too, like a Swiss army knife of some description.

"And this is my eating hand," he said, turning a dial on his elbow so that a small fork popped out of his wrist, "and this is my wreck your shit up hand," more turning and the fork was replaced by a wooden hammer. "And this… LARS DID YOU MESS AROUND WITH MY HAND AGAIN!" He hurried to shield the obscene object from Björn's view, glaring at the approaching boy.

"A little," he admitted, "but Peter's being a shit!"

"You're both shits!" Hemming turned the dial until his regular hand was back; "how do you even do this without me knowing?"

"You're a heavy sleeper," Lars shrugged, "and don't act like you're a saint! You once hid my glasses and I nearly walked into five different buildings! Then there was the time you replaced my soap with glue!"

Peter and Björn burst into giggle fits, whilst Hemming tried to suppress his own laughter; Lars' scowl deepened.

"You're all shits!"

"We're all shits," Björn corrected, standing up, "but we're shits on a mission!"

"Right!" agreed Hemming, "so, saving Papa Berwald, huh?"

"Yeah, c'mon! I'll explain everything back at the theatre!"

…

**Oh god what is this?**

**I seem to be struggling with my writing lately, and have the attention span of a fly… it turned out stiff in some places.**

**Okay, this time I'll try to work on other things!**

**I bet once I start college again inspiration will come back. It's how things usually work. Life's a bitch.**

…**I should probably work on not being a miserable, pessimistic bastard too.**


	6. The missing daughter

_Xiang- Hong Kong_

_Cheng- Macau_

_Arjun- India_

_Mei- Taiwan_

_Apari- Australia_

_Hunapo- New Zealand_

_Niran- Thailand_

_Angelique- Seychelles_

_Lukas- Norway_

…

_Right, so sorry for the long delay everyone! I'm incredibly lazy, okay? Plus, I was editing the previous chapters for mistakes and plot holes etc. To be completely honest, I'm gonna have to ask you to please, please, please reread them, because a lot has been changed and added, including more nonbinary characters. Also, I did not remove Cuba from chapter three because I dislike him (he's actually one of my favourite characters), but because he's supposed to turn up later with some other characters AND I FORGOT THAT BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING IDIOT!_

_Anyhow, new characters will turn up in this. Unfortunately not Cuba, but other equally interesting characters! However, I sincerely recommend not reading about them until you've read the previous chapters._

…

_*Somewhere in the Indian Ocean*_

…

Yao frequently wondered where it all went wrong.

He used to be so great. Wang Yao had been the terror of the South China Sea, leading his great fleet of ships out of his home port in Canton to raid unsuspecting, undefended merchant ships. Throughout his gruesome reign, Yao had stolen countless treasures and been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people, fighting with a fury and skill rarely paralleled. With a sword in each hand, he would cut down all who stood in his way, earning a reputation in both the Eastern and Western world.

So why was it that, in his old age, he could not even command enough respect from his children to break up their petty squabbles?

"But why do you get eight junks whilst I only get seven?" protested Xiang.

"Because I'm older?" Cheng offered as a suggestion, "besides, you get eleven fishing boats and I only get ten!"

Yao groaned, sinking further into his chair. Although his crew had remained in awe of his presence as he passed into his twilight years, his children had done no such thing. They just shoved him aside and busied themselves with dividing his inheritance, which was causing more than its fair share of fights. Already, the situation had caused his only daughter to run away.

Yao couldn't help but feel hurt by it all. He wasn't even in his grave yet and his family were sharing his wealth amongst themselves like vultures. He had half a mind to pass everything on to his crew and not give the children a single thing, but knew that would only cause more problems in the long run.

"To be honest," Cheng began slyly, hiding his chuckle behind his fan, "you should be lucky you're getting anything at all, being the youngest."

"And you should be lucky I haven't killed you in your sleep," Xiang shot back, presumably as a joke.

"Like you'd dare," Cheng hissed.

"You're both lucky you're getting anything at this moment in time!" Yao howled, shooting up as fast as his creaking bones would allow. He paced up and down his lavishly-decorated cabin, glaring at the two young men. Outside, the harsh sun glared down on the ship, filtering through the window and catching against the many gold and jewelled items in Yao's cabin.

The pirate leader was wrapped in layers of soft, brightly-coloured silks, various knives and guns hidden in the fabrics and two curved swords hung from his belt. His long, greying, hair was tied in a ponytail running down his back, and a back and red hat threw a large chunk of his face into shadow.

"What do you mean?" Xiang frowned.

"I'll tell you," Yao came to a stop next to his desk, leaning heavily against his globe; "to be completely honest here, I am disgusted by your behaviour! You're talking like I'm already dead and it's terrifying! What happened to you, Cheng? You used to be so kind-hearted, now you only care about getting more than Xiang."

Cheng looked at the floor guiltily and nodded, "I'm sorry, Baba."

"And me, Baba?" asked Xiang.

"Oh you were always a shit!" Yao cried, waving an arm.

"I learnt from the best."

Yao laughed, "thank you, Xiang. But you both forget how hard I have fought to keep you alive and safe! I have protected this ship with my life in order to keep you from drowning or being captured, and you're throwing it all in my face by treating me like I'm no good anymore. I should have thrown you all overboard when I still could, but I promised your mother I'd protect you all! Have our sacrifices been for nothing? You've already driven your sister away!"

"Actually," Cheng interrupted, "_you_ drove Meimei away by leaving her out of the will."

Yao paused, glaring at his oldest, "fine, _that _was my fault. But the thing is, we should be focused on getting her back, not fighting over my money! Until she is safe and well, I'm banning all talk of inheritance! This is something- I've realised- we need to include her in." He spun the globe absent-mindedly, watching the faded colours and lines become a blur.

"That's fair," Cheng sighed and Xiang nodded.

"Thank you," Yao realised he had been standing for too long, and his legs were aching. He shuffled back to his chair, finding comfort in the soft leather upholstery. His sons looked at him in concern, but he just smiled.

"I'm fine," Yao insisted. It was then that the doors were flown open and one of the crew members burst in, shouting and making an awful racket, much to the old man's horror.

"Kapur! What have I told you about knocking?" Arjun Kapur was the newest member of Yao's fleet, a young Indian sailor they'd found marooned on a desert island they stopped at. When Yao first saw him, he was barely alive, lying emaciated in the baking sand and begging them to spare some water for him. He was passed to the ship's surgeon, who nursed him back to health, bit by bit. Now he was stronger, healthier and part of the crew, working just as hard as anyone else for his keep. He never mentioned the circumstances of his marooning, and Yao didn't care to ask, deciding it was not his business so long as Arjun didn't cause trouble.

"I'm sorry, captain, but I bring urgent news!" Arjun was still on the scrawny side, with messy black hair and kind brown eyes hidden under thick brows; he wore a baggy shirt and trousers and his feet were bare. "It concerns your daughter!"

"Meimei?" Yao gasped; "do you know where she is?" Yao had very few leads regarding his daughter's disappearance, except that she was in Europe. It would take weeks for his fleet to reach there, so he'd sent scouts ahead in faster boats to bring back intelligence, but reports were few and far between.

"Yes, a message arrived by animatronic crane just now," he looked at his boss grimly, "it's not good, I'm afraid."

"Well spit it out!" Yao was breathing heavily now, sitting up in his chair and one of his sleeves. Cheng and Xiang stood protectively either side of him.

"It appears she was captured by pirates off the coast of Denmark."

"No, it can't be! Please say it's not true!"

"I'm afraid it is, sir."

"Do you know where they took her?"

"It doesn't say," Arjun told him.

"But," Cheng interrupted, looking a little green, "she was in Malta last time we heard!"

"I know," Arjun pulled a scrap of paper out of his shirt, "the message says she's run off with a French barmaid and their pair headed north. Both where captured at a seaside tavern." Yao took the note and scanned over it quickly.

"So what should we do?" asked Xiang.

"Go after her, of course!" cried Yao, "we can't let them get away with this!"

"We'll need a plan though," Arjun pointed out.

"Yes, Kapur, I am aware!" Yao groaned as he pulled himself up, wandering over to his desk again and pulling out a large chart. The other three gathered round him, peering over the captain's shoulder. "Look, this ship will take a course past Egypt and Arabia into the Middle Sea, where we'll try to find out what we can about Meimei and these pirates."

"But sir," Arjun gulped, "that's Barbary Corsair territory!"

"I don't care. We can fight them."

"But how will we get through the canal without being arrested and killed?" asked Xiang.

"Simple," Yao winked, "we'll disguise ourselves as a simple merchant ship selling silks or spices. No one will be any the wiser! Besides, there's no reason for Chinese pirates to be this far away from Canton."

"What about the fleet?" asked Arjun.

"They'll go the long way round," Yao pointed at the map, tracing a route around the south of Africa. "And stop any ship they see in the Atlantic. We'll sail round Spain to Denmark to try and find Meimei, then meet up with the rest of the fleet off the coast of Ireland. Hopefully, between us, we'll find who took her and make them pay."

"A sound plan, sir," Arjun commented.

"I know, Kapur, that's why I made it," Yao sighed, heading towards the door. Cheng, Xiang and Arjun followed him onto deck, where the captain began barking orders at the crew.

"Yong Soo, Apari, the sails! Hunapo, set a course due northwest! Niran, put a shirt on!" he cried at one young man, running about in nothing but a pair of baggy trousers. The last order was ignored, but the other orders were followed, and soon the ship was headed for the Arabian Sea.

Yao moved to the bow, leaning against the bulwarks whilst bright orange bamboo sails flapped behind him in the wind. Although the crew shouted and called to each other as they worked, the sounds never reached Yao's ears. He just stood there, gazing out at the dark blue sea stretched before him and sighed. His daughter was beyond that horizon, in grave danger and probably terrified. She could already be dead, for all he knew, though he tried not to think of that possibility.

"Don't worry Meimei," he breathed, "I'm coming."

…

Wang Mei was very much alive, though not in the best state. She sobbed quietly in the corner of the crowded cell, arms wrapped around her companion, who also seemed on the verge of tears. Angelique, however, was determined to put on a brave face.

All around them, others sat huddled behind bars in the tiny, damp, crowded brig. The place smelled awful and was crawling with bugs and rats, and vomit from people who couldn't stand the swaying of the ship as it was tossed about by the waves. Mei stared down at her soiled dress, ruined by dirty water and mud. Her older brother had bought her that, claiming the pink colour and cute flowers had reminded him of her.

"I'm cold," Angelique whined, shivering as she huddled closer to Mei.

"Me too," Mei agreed, rubbing the girl's arms in an attempt to warm them up. Angelique came from islands in the south, hot beautiful places that never saw snow. She still wasn't used to the cold, despite living in the south of France for years. Out here in the Baltic Sea, the temperatures were pure torture for her.

Not that Mei was faring any better, and she shivered in her silk dress.

The door to their cell was thrown open, and yet more prisoners shoved in. Mei regarded them with interest, noting their rich, detailed clothing, which was now ripped and bloody. Some of their expressions showed genuine fear, whilst others appeared offended that the pirates had _dared_ treat them like this. Did these rogues not know who they were?

One such man- a gangly, brunet in thick glasses- thought it would be a good idea to voice his offence. He stumbled to his feet, grabbing the bars and glaring at the two pirates on the other side: Captain Densen and a slim man with long blond hair tied back in a scarf.

"This is outrageous!" he cried, "you uncivilised barbarians! I can't believe you people are even allowed to exist in today's society!"

"You talk big for a little man behind bars," Captain Densen commented.

"And you talk big for someone who doesn't know what putting this little man behind bars means for him."

"I don't know how important you are in your society," the other pirate commented, "but I doubt you're special enough to warrant a rescue party."

"An excellent point, Lukas."

"I wouldn't be so sure," the man grinned, straightening his cravat and waistcoat, "my name is Roderich Edelstein, and you've just managed to piss off my ex-partner."

"If they're your ex then I doubt they're that interested in saving you," Mathias commented dryly.

"You'd be surprised," Roderich shrugged, "we're still in touch. My ex also happens to be a pirate captain, and won't stand for this at all."

"Oh yes?" Mathias smirked, raising an eyebrow, "and what would their name be?"

"Érzsebét Héderváry. Or Boldizsár Héderváry, if that's the name you heard."

Mathias's smile fell in an instant, and Lukas struck the back of his head.

"You're an idiot, Densen," he hissed; "of all the people to capture, you pick Héderváry's ex-husband?"

"Well I didn't know!" Mathias dragged him away from the prisoners, "look, this isn't _that_ big a deal!"

"Then why are your eyes fearful and voice high-pitched?"

"…Sometimes I just have to wonder why I love you."

"Likewise," Lukas rolled his eyes, "but back to the matter at hand. If Héderváry finds out then they'll kill us all. Slowly. And. Painfully."

"If," Mathias reminded him, "if they find out. Which they won't. How could they? Everyone on that cruise ship is either in the brig or slain. How exactly will the word get out to anyone, let alone pirates who need to keep a low profile?"

"I think they'll notice when the ship doesn't arrive at its destination. Or when someone comes across said ship abandoned in the sea with no passengers or crew. There'll be a region-wide panic! I told you not to go after cruisers!"

"I know," Mathis sighed, "but there were so many people… I couldn't resist."

Lukas just patted his arm. "We'll just have to hope for the best. Don't be too hard on yourself, that's my job."

"Noted," Mathias said with a wink, "now, to shut those noisy prisoners up…"

…

**Not much to say here, except a junk is a Chinese ship.**


End file.
